


Metamorphosis

by potatofriends



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Body Horror, Drama, Drug Addiction, F/M, Gaslighting, Gore, Hallucinations, Horror, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Rats, Romance, Substance Abuse, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatofriends/pseuds/potatofriends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 1923, when jazz music still blares through the dance halls, when flappers still swing their hips to the beat and liquor is sipped in secret, Dean Winchester first enters “The Utopian Magical Company of New York” upon the persuasion of his brother.<br/>In hopes to escape his past and present, Dean soon finds himself sucked into a multicolored spectacle for all senses with animals that change their species at the crack of a whip and words that spill onto the fabric of reality like ink.<br/>But Dean finds solace not only in the stunning show but especially in a charming storyteller named Castiel, who fascinates him with his stark blue eyes and polarizing personality.<br/>However when mysterious incidents begin to happen and Dean embarks on a search for the truth, he realizes that something about the establishment is horribly wrong…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014 and was written by backhendl, schnaeffchen und nubbelbob- three authors, you heard right.  
> It's our first fic, SPN or otherwise, and retrospectively it might not have been such a smart idea to start out with a plot of these epic proportions. However it has been a fun, albeit bumpy, ride! 
> 
> A list of people we wish to thank:
> 
> 1) Our lovely artist kai (check out her pictures here!), who has proven to be incredibly patient and super nice, not to talk about her amazing artistic skills (seriously though, check out these AMAZING illustrations)!
> 
> 2) Our beta reader nashornvogel, who played cheerleader and supplied lots of double entendres as soon as we started despairing. 
> 
> 3) Basically everyone, who was forced to listen to our incoherent rambling and panicked wails (read: backhendl's panicked wails) about this huge-ass fic!
> 
> 4) And of course the DCBB mods, doing a great job like every year! 
> 
> For further rambling, check out the end notes.  
> And without further ado, we're going to part the metaphorical curtains to this fic.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Art Masterpost:  
> Playlist: 
> 
> \----------  
> Parts of this fic will be revised in the coming days. We've been having some technical issues over here, so sorry about the formatting in the second half of the fic.

When Dean Winchester peered through the window panes into the room and saw familiar dark curls and curved lips, he knew that there would be trouble, because that woman was always up to no good.

  
"You?", he asked, as he entered through the door, small bells tinkling above his head. He pulled a face, hesitated for a moment.  
"Me", Ruby deadpanned and stole a fry off Sam's plate, who watched her resignedly.  
Dean sat down on the opposite bench, all patchy plastic stretched over cheap sponge. He stripped off his jacket then grabbed the menu, took a deep breath and looked pointedly at Sam.  
"The hell were you thinking?"

  
"Dean", he started and wrung his hands, wiped them across the sticky table, "look, I know that dinner is something special for you."  
"Damn right", Dean said, and put the menu back down, because, really, he always ordered the same thing, "and it should be for you, too."  
"It is."

  
Dean wasn't even sure why he lifted it up in the first place.  
The thing was, meeting at the Roadhouse diner every other day for dinner was a tradition and without it, he and Sam probably wouldn't see each other in months, with their busy work schedules and what not.  
It was something Dean looked forward to, after an endless day at the precinct full of paperwork, because the job of a policeman isn’t as exciting as one may think. And was it too much to ask for, to see his baby brother once in a while?

  
It didn't matter that his baby brother grew up to have the appearance of a brick tower or that he was pursuing a successful career as a lawyer, with secretaries and offices and a pay that Dean could only dream of. Just twice, hell, even once a week to let him know that he was still alive and kicking, with his shaggy hair and too-kind eyes.

  
"So why did you take her with you again?"  
"Look, we’ve had this talk already, alright?”, Sam said and shrugged his shoulders, "Ruby had a day off and wanted to tag along.”  
"I didn't know that drug addicts had a day off? I've heard it's a full time job. "  
"Dean", Sam sighed, "I told you already, she has changed. You should give her a chance."  
"Listen, I’ve known her a lot longer than you, alright. She isn't just an addict, she's a criminal, a dealer, a con artist and a thief. People like her don't change, hell, she was convicted more times than I can count!"  
"That's no big feat", she said.  
"You see? Not only that, she is also rude."  
"Would you two stop already? Ruby is helping me with my case. She is a valuable asset and believe me, she's different now. Do you really think I would work with a junkie? She's clean, I've had her tested. It's been years since she even touched a syringe. "  
"Oh, come on, don't tell me you believe her. Sam, I was the one who tracked her down and put handcuffs on her and back then, she was higher than an airplane. What was it again? Coke? Heroin?"  
"It seems we have reached a new level of hypocrisy, Dean "binge drinker" Winchester. You wouldn't believe how many things I hear through the grapevine”, Ruby drawled.    
“You “, he said and pointed at her, “you are the binge drinker here, you…”  
He paused and licked his lips.    
“Binge drinker”, he concluded.  
Ruby raised an eyebrow and Dean shifted in his seat.

  
Thankfully a waitress came along and set a greasy cheeseburger and sizzling fries in front of Dean.  
"Here you go, one heart attack with extra bacon, like always", she quipped, "by the way, mom sends her regards."  
"Thanks, Jo", Dean said and she nodded.  
Jo shot Dean a knowing look and grinned upon turning around. She’s always had a good timing.  
He watched her return to the counter, wiping it down indifferently with a rag. Dean knew that she disliked her job at Ellen’s restaurant. That stubborn girl was probably still looking for a way to become independent and fulfill her own dreams.

  
If it were up to Jo and him, they would have traded their jobs long ago:  
He loved this diner in all its filthy glory with its creaking chairs and cracked dishes.  
The Roadhouse was home, in a way his tiny apartment never was or could be and its owners, the Harvelles, were practically family. The diner reminded him of the better days of his childhood, when he would play with Sam and Jo outside of the diner, and Ellen would offer them vanilla milkshakes on hot summer days.

By now these milkshakes had turned into whiskey and scotch, which Ellen sold in the speakeasy upstairs. Upon the Prohibition, she had decided to split the bar into a diner and a speakeasy. After all it wouldn’t be Ellen if she gave a damn about the law.

  
"You see", Sam started and interrupted Dean’s thoughts, "the thing is, I can't stay for long. That's the main reason why I tried to call you."  
Dean took a large bite of his cheeseburger and it slid down his throat like a knife.  
"What? Why?"  
"I'm sorry, can we maybe do this tomorrow? I promise I’ll be there for dinner”, he said. Sam stood up, on his way to get his hat and coat.  
"What is so important that you have to leave like that?", Dean asked and felt anger boiling like hot oil.  
Dean grabbed Sam by his arm and pulled him back down to his seat.  
Ruby looked at Sam expectantly. He fidgeted and Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

  
"We're going on a date", Sam finally confessed.  
"And quite frankly, we're getting late," Ruby added.  
Dean stared at Sam incredulously. "What do you mean, a date?"  
Ruby inched towards his brother and Sam laid an arm around her waist and smiled like the goddamn idiot he was and suddenly everything clicked into place.

  
"You're fucking her", Dean said and pinched the bridge of his nose, "I can't believe you're fucking her."  
Sam turned red and opened his mouth in protest, that girl probably wanted to hear something like "making sweet love".  
"God damn it! I don't know what the hell I've got to do to make you understand that this woman will end you! Maybe I should draw a picture for you to understand!"  
He grabbed his stained napkin, pulled a ballpen out of his breast pocket and began drawing a crude picture on it.  
"Here, look at this. You put your dick in her and you'll probably die. At best you end up in jail with a fuck load of STDs. "  
Ruby shot him a glare.

  
"Dean, stop shouting," Sam said.  
"I have seen what she did with her men! None of them is walking around freely at this point."  
"Maybe you should realize that I'm old enough to make my own decisions now. I'm not a kid anymore."  
"Yeah, I know that. Back then you were still cute and would actually listen to your brother!"

  
Ruby stood up and slipped her jacket on, heels clicking on the checkered linoleum floor.  
"Alright, boys, I'm going now. Sam, if you want to continue butting your head with your imbecile brother, I won't stop you. But I've got these tickets for this vaudeville show tonight and I'm not willing to waste them."  
"How about if Dean comes along?", Sam suggested to Ruby, and turned to his brother, "come on, it's going to be fun. Ruby can get you in."  
Dean was ready to interrupt his brother with a defiant "no" but then Sam stared at him with those big puppy eyes. And god damn it, Winchester, your brother just wants you to get along with his junkie girlfriend, who doesn't even nearly deserve him.

  
"Alright, I'll go", he sighed and the happy look on Sam’s face reassured him of his choice.  
"But only if we use my car. I'm not going to turn up there in that joke on four wheels that happens to be your car."  
He finished his food hastily and left a bill on the table, giving Jo a bigger tip than usually. Dean knew that she needed the money to move out. But honestly he thought that cash was the least of her problems, seeing as Ellen was strongly opposed to her plans.   
  
Dean's car was outside on the parking lot and a true beauty, polished black metal and shining silver, his pride and love.  
She used to belong to his dad, who liked to tell him about the adventures he'd had with her ("never it- she is a lady"), driving through and protecting his neighborhood on patrols, back then the police wasn’t as organized as now.  
But even after his death she was in a nearly mint condition, Dean made sure of that.

  
Sam helped Ruby into the car and sat down next to her in the back. Dean revved the engine and off they went.  
"Where is it?", he asked and watched the couple in the rear view mirror.  
"Wayward street."  
He drove in silence, gripping the steering wheel anxiously. The car glided through dusk, between the many high rise buildings, cold cement with thousands of lit windows like a starry sky.  
Luminescent signs stretched across the houses and thick smog creeping into every crevice, people strolling on the uneven pavements.  
There was something magical about New York in the evening and truly, it was a city that never slept, strangely comforting with its everlasting presence.

  
"So, how's work?", Dean started.  
"Tiring. There's this really big case right now that everyone at the office works at. Some mogul disappeared from his home one day and left this huge company behind and the actual heirs are nowhere to be found. So basically everybody is trying to get a piece of the company."  
"That's why we wanted to go to the show today", Ruby said and her arm snaked around Sam's biceps.  
Dean felt like throwing up.  
"He's been so stressed lately, I wanted him to have a time out. He can't run on forever, right?", she added.  
Sam smiled sheepishly.  
Dean raised his eyebrows and for a moment he thought, maybe she was different now.  
Maybe they were good for each other and maybe he was worrying for nothing.  
But then he remembered the files and files on her, so many files, pictures of messy hair, cut lips and sunken cheeks, and the names of men who first lost their hearts and then their fortune to Ruby Sangue.  
And Dean was back to the start with uneasiness and concern crawling right beneath his skin.

  
"Vaudeville show, hm?", he said in an attempt to take his mind off the topic.  
"Not in the traditional sense", Ruby quickly added. "It's a lot more..."  
She paused, looking for the right word. "Innovative. Unique. I think that it has the potential to become something for eternity."

  
They arrived soon thereafter and when Dean parked the car and stepped out he saw a building that truly towered and outshone its neighbors, many floors stacked upon each other, reaching towards the sky.  
Dean whistled lowly.

  
If a person ever asked for a definition of fluidity, Dean Winchester wouldn't have shown them water, but this very building:  
Cream in color, with gigantic, bright signs, glittering and glowing in every color imaginable were advertising magnificent acts, switching the signs within seconds, "Come see the fantastic Balthazar and his mesmerizing assistant Ms. Talbot working their magic!", "Experience wondrous terror and watch the most horrendous freak of them all: Mr. Lafitte!".

  
The entrance curved in a welcoming arc, with crisp ornaments and ivory figures above the gate, constantly moving and twisting in a way that surely was inexplicable in any logical manner.  
It was hard to make out single shapes, seeing as it was one shifting unit, but the longer Dean stared at it, the easier it was to make out clear images.  
He saw a woman, all curves and taunting eyes, shimmying in front of him before a laughing man appeared who snapped his fingers once. His surrounding then erupted in a flash of white lightning and bizarre candies.  
And in the center, a sign that read in cursive, black letters: The Utopian Magical Company of New York.

  
It was magical, it was inexplicable, it was nothing like anything Dean had ever seen before and simply put, he was stunned.  
It was most definitely one of the more prestigious theaters, nothing like the small time ones Dean used to visit in his spare time, when vaudeville shows still used to be more popular.  
"Wait here", Ruby said and she strode forwards to the box office, smiling sweetly at the salesman.  
"So, what do you think?", Sam asked with a grin.  
Dean nodded in return, glanced at his brother and it was the first time in weeks that he has seen him this happy. Dean chuckled.  
"Yeah, it's pretty great, I guess."  
  
   
  
 

Ruby soon waved them over, having organized another ticket for Dean rather quickly and together they entered the building.

  
The moment he stepped in, it seemed as if someone had lifted a veil from his eyes, colors brighter and senses sharper. The ceilings were covered in frescos while the walls were decorated in tapestry, which seemed to be shipped from overseas, maybe Europe.  They briefly crossed the lobby, soft carpet muffling their footsteps, and Dean could only briefly inspect the pictures hanging on the wooden walls.

What surprised him the most, was perhaps the smell of the theater.  
Neither a trace of musty curtains and moth-eaten costumes, nor of the damp coats of visitors and the rancid sweat of performers.  
Instead, it smelled distinctly of fresh, buttered popcorn and a rich sweetness, like toffee, curling up Dean's nose.

  
The hall, wherein the show would take place, was illuminated softly by crystal chandeliers swaying from the high ceiling and consisted of planes stacked upon planes connected by sturdy stairs, velvet chairs upon waxed wood, circling a round stage in the very center of the room. There was another entrance on the other end of the room, right behind the stage- presumambly for the performers.  
It was shaped like a funnel, Dean noted, as they took place amongst the other spectators. Unlike in other theaters, in which it was quite hard to see what was going on, if a particularly tall person sat in front of you, one had a spectacular view on the acts, regardless of your seat.

  
He sank into the chair, taken aback by how soft it was, a lion‘s head carved into its armrest.  
Visitors were still streaming into the room, men, women, children, vendors selling candies and beverages, the loud bustling that accompanied every vaudeville show.    
Dean bought a bag of popcorn and offered it to Sam, who declined- more for him, he thought and stuffed a handful in his mouth, sticky and sweet.  
Then the lights went out. Not gradually, slowly fading out, but all at once with a suddenness that left Dean reeling for a moment, robbed of his sight.  
The audience became silent and only the soft rustling of belated guests was to be heard.  
And then a voice boomed loudly, chandeliers clinking and window panes vibrating in anticipation.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen", it said, low and suave and Dean realized that this wouldn't be the usual show, with wacky dancers and charming singers, but something far more special.

  
"This show is going to change your life in far more ways than you can imagine, for no one has ever left 'The Utopian Magical Company of New York' without having been imprinted by it, this I can assure you.  
"Prepare yourself to have your breath robbed, and lean back as you will experience the most profound event you will ever have! Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, let us present you..."

  
Dean heard a lone note of a piano, and a spotlight appeared, circling across the empty stage.  
"Our beloved acrobat, the delicate, oh so sweet, mademoiselle Anna!"  
The audience cheered and waited. And waited. And nothing happened, nobody appeared from the unremarkable entrance on the eastern wing. They started whispering, "oh what's going to happen now?", "all this fuss about nothing, really?" and the lone note played again.

  
Sam looked at Ruby, seeing as this wasn't the first time she attended this show, but she simply smiled and pointed up.  
The spotlight swerved sharply and moved upwards and there, hovering in thin air was a young woman.  
A long, green piece of cloth, chiffon perhaps, was painstakingly wrapped multiple times around her neck and flowing down her body, obscuring a large part of it.  
There she was, hands at her hips, ten meters above the stage.  
Her face was utterly relaxed and displayed not even the slightest trace of effort, merely a warm smile.  
Only after careful inspection, Dean believed to see a thin line, sharply reflecting the light, beneath her feet- a tightrope, stretched from one end of the hall to the other.  
The music picked up, drums accompanying now the simple piano tune.

  
Anna started leaping across the wire, toes barely touching it, as if she was free from the constraint of gravity, twirling and teasing about.  
The mere title of "acrobat" would have been an insult to her performance.  
It was really more of a dance than anything else.

  
She would stretch her legs and part them, take hold of the rope and spin round and round it, until Dean was feeling dizzy, and suddenly she was back on top, performing somersaults and cartwheels.  
And it seemed so heart wrenchingly easy and so light, that Dean didn't even dare to breathe, as if a simple puff of air would cause the whole scene to crumble and collapse in itself.  
All the while the cloth trailed behind her, soft and green, gently wrapping around the wire and robbing it of its invisibility.  
Unwinding and revealing her milky thighs and a simple costume, shimmering green and blue in the light like a broken glass bottle.  
And the fabric went on and on, until all that was left, was a thin ribbon around the graceful neck of the performer, nothing but a residue.

  
Then she toppled.  
She fell sideways, plummeting towards the stage, gravity suddenly being all too present.  
Anna curled her head towards her chest, back arching to a perfect curve. The fabric continued to trail her.  
And she stopped, paused in midair, as if time was frozen and unwound herself, stretching her limbs and neck.  
Allowing the silent audience to see feathers sprouting from the costume, her skin, hesitantly piercing the cloth.  
This is impossible, Dean thought.  
Anna's body contorted itself gracefully, head tilted back and hair strands brushing her shoulder blades.  
She winked and the audience erupted.

  
What once was a plain costume now fluttered and shone in hundreds of greens, as she was gripping the fabric, only held by the paper thin wire.  
Finally the band kicked in, loud trumpets blaring and two trapeze got lowered to her level.  
She swung her arm backwards, took hold of one the bars and kicked herself up, until she was sitting on it, at the center of the stage, the center of the hall, quickly rotating around the axis.  
She was pretty, Dean noted, with bright green eyes and slender legs.  
Anna dangled them above the ground, the trapezes drew higher. She spread out her arms and laughed, clear like a bell.  

  
And she stepped up on the bar only to hook her arms and legs around the ropes: poised and in complete control without a single twitching muscle.  
She then untangled herself with ease and stood again on two feet, just to thrust herself from it and glide through the air like a bird. Flinging herself from one trapeze to the next sometimes switching  back to the high wire, stepping on it briefly, endlessly rotating and spinning about, she finally came to rest, back atop of the green ribbon.  
Anna slid down quickly and bowed. Her feathers rustled and she didn't appear to have broken sweat in the slightest.  
Dean found himself clapping as furiously as the rest of the audience and a quick glance in Sam's direction showed him that he was equally impressed.  
She exited quickly through the impressive door and made space for the next performer.  
  
  
 

Act upon act passed and Dean found himself stunned again and again.  
He was surprised to see a burlesque dancer not that he was complaining. Dean wasn't going to lie, that was something more up his alley than the average squeaky clean vaudeville bill.  
Both the comedian and "The Great Balthazar" as well as his assistant were equally fascinating. Not that it really prepared him for the next act, of course.  

  
"Now, after having been confronted with such a light-hearted act you might want something more down to earth. Something grittier, nerve wracking enough to make you sit up. Pay attention, for she is a fierce one, full of abandon and with a love for danger. We present you the tamer of beasts, Abaddon!"

  
The doors flew instantaneously open and a woman strode in, no trace of doubt lingering on her, only confidence and perhaps even pride.  
Her hips were swaying in tune with the screaming trumpets, sheer fabric held loosely around her waist with a leather belt.  
She batted her eyes and the audience was entranced, tight red curls and crimson lips were all they saw then.  
Her fingers, nails shining vermillion, clutched a long black whip that she trailed as a warning behind her.  
She was the kind of woman, who would eat her men whole and then spit out their remains.  
Abaddon cracked her whip and her earrings jingled.

  
She was absolutely, positively terrifying. She was also, Dean noted, really fucking hot.  
A tiger was trailing her or at least Dean assumed it was, because really, he had seen animals of these kinds in other acts and they were nothing like this specimen.  
First of all it was much larger than usually, maybe twice or even thrice as big as a normal tiger, towering over Abaddon like a high rise building. And unlike the half dead animals in zoos and other establishments, it was truly healthy, with sparks of life in its eyes and taut muscles beneath a shining plane of fur.  
The animal was now pacing up and down on the stage and approached the audience, sniffed the spectators in the first row and growled.  
The people shrieked in response.  
Dean was suddenly struck with the realization that there was nothing separating the viewers from the tiger, no cage, no glass, no nothing.

  
The whip hit the floor with a loud bang, dust floated in the air and the animal sat down with a low rumble.  
Abaddon pulled out a matchbox, colored hard black with golden ornaments, from a pocket, pushed it open and extracted swiftly a match in complete disregard of the audience.  
She scratched it with a careless movement of her wrist against the small box, flame sparking to life and hovering atop of the small red stick.  
Then she dropped it to the floor.

  
Upon the impact flames erupted from the wooden floor. Not gradually form end to end but without delay whatsoever, columns of heat in vivid colors, violet, cobalt and sapphire, shooting up several meters vertically from the ground around her and her animal, lighting them in a blazing glow.  
So strong, that Dean wondered as he lifted his hand in front of his face to shield himself from the heat, just what the hell was up with that floor.  
When the fire finally died down, there were flame rings hovering in the hot air, quivering like a mirage. The stage was untainted.  
She cracked the whip and the tiger charged and jumped through the hoop.

  
But the fire already grazed its fur, when merely its paws passed through, lighting the animal ablaze.  
And it burned away its stripes and colors, leaving nothing but black behind.

  
The panther walked around Abaddon and brushed her legs lightly.  
She bent down to scratch it behind its ears and to dig her long nails into its back, circling its brand on the base of their tails, a pentacle in a circle.  
Abaddon snapped her fingers and the animal stood stiff and alert.

  
The big cat suddenly darted across the stage, passing through each hoop in a zigzag.  
But every time it made its way through one of them, its body seemed to waver and split into two leaving an exact duplicate behind that followed its path, colorful sparks flying and whizzing through the air like fireworks.

  
And finally eight cheetahs were on stage watching Abaddon, as she walked towards them, her hand brushing their bodies nonchalantly. The fire rings vanished.  
Dean noticed that not all of the cats were branded with the symbol.  
She clicked her tongue loudly and the animals formed two rows and bowed down, hides in the air and paws in front of their buried faces, they were subjects to their queen and she reigned with a calculated smile.

  
She lowered herself, until she was kneeling on the floor and facing the animals eye to eye.  
The woman didn't seem to have a problem with being surrounded by dangerous predators that could easily rip her into pieces, but seemed almost ridiculously relaxed, as if that was her natural habitat and there was nothing easier than sitting amongst these beasts.  
She picked one of the cats and started brushing its face.  
Placed her slender fingers beneath its jaw and squeezed its cheeks.  
Pulled its whiskers and stretched the mouth of the animal by inserting her fingers under its lips, boldly ignoring the warning snarl and yanked its ears sharply upwards instead.  
The cheetah hissed and bared its fangs, wrinkled nose and rows of sharp teeth- Dean could swear that there were more sets than usual. She placed her hand up until her wrist in its mouth and Dean was sitting on the edge of his seat, peering down on the obviously suicidal performer.  
The cheetah bit her and blood pooled quickly from its mouth and dripped on the parquet.

  
Dean felt the familiar lurch of his stomach and the cold wave of panic that washed over his head.  
They had had a case like this in the office: an animal tamer got mauled by its pets. He had a wife and a daughter, six years old.  
He was grateful for not having been the one to pick up his remains and tell his family the whole story, even if the paperwork sure was a pain in the ass.  
But she neither screamed in horror nor flinched.

  
Instead Abaddon pulled out her injured hand gingerly and watched it with interest, smiling at it like at a private joke between her and the rushing blood in her palm.  
She moved her palm upwards and brushed the fur of the cheetah between its eyes, drawing a circle with her soiled finger, blood drops trailing down its nose.  
What happened then was quite odd, not that anything was normal about this bill.  
It wasn't obvious at first but on the foreheads of the other animals a stain appeared, darkening rapidly and matting their hair, liquid running down their faces. Exactly on the same spot, like a portent.  
The first cheetah hissed once more and all the others followed suite.  
Blood binds, Dean noted wryly, it wasn't a foreign concept to him.

  
Abaddon stood up and raised her arm forcefully, gripped the whip with her injured hands and cracked it, the sound cutting through the silence like a scythe.  
And the cheetah jolted and the other cheetahs jolted as well, completely in sync.  
Another signal and the cheetah raised its paws and balanced its weight on its hind legs, followed by the other animals.  
Crack, and the cats danced, moving their paws up and down, rotating clumsily. Tails wagging to the beat of the drum.  
Abaddon laughed.

  
And it wasn't funny but horrifying, fascinating almost, to watch her control these mighty beasts with a shake of the wrist. Creatures that were faster and stronger than man, with wilderness and hunger in their eyes.  
They were hunters of the best kind but here they were doing a silly little jig as if they were born to do so, completely under control of their tamer- a grotesque distortion of their true nature.

  
She clapped her hands sharply and they dropped their paws back to the ground.  
Abaddon flicked out a match once again, lit it and dropped it.  
And whereas the stage erupted the first time in scorching fire columns, this time it was flaming ice, cold crystals climbing up and encasing seven out of eight cats.  
For a moment it was perfectly still- nothing moved, nothing made a sound.  
Only statues of permafrost, smooth, glistening and absolute.  
Then the monuments started cracking and it all came tumbling down, crushed ice and sliding glaciers, burying everything underneath it and obscuring the view.  
The ice melted to water, clear and pure, and the water evaporated, everything within seconds.

  
Abaddon stood there with a single lion, branded on its hide, and the cheetahs were gone.  
The audience clapped their hands in awe and Dean was grateful for the tamer to have had her animal, or rather animals, under perfect control.  
A loud gong rang through the room and Dean noted somewhat sadly, that the intermission was starting. He stood up, following Sam and Ruby out of the room.  
  
"Okay", Dean said, once they reentered the lobby "where the hell have you even heard of this theater?"  
Ruby shrugged.  
"I know people."  
"This isn't even big time stuff, man", he laughed, "this is a whole different league."  
She snorted.  
"Come on. I mean, yeah, it's way better than the average show but I've seen better acts, this isn't that great."  
Dean looked at her incredulously.  
"Can you believe it, Sam? Not that great, my ass."

  
"I don't know, it's definitely worth going to. Thanks Ruby", Sam said and she looked at him with these bedroom eyes, that Dean didn't like at all, mainly because they invited Sam into Ruby's bed and it probably worked.  
Dean groaned and flicked popcorn at him.  
"Wow, mature", Ruby said.  
"You can count yourself lucky that my bag is empty now", Dean replied and crumpled it.

  
"Which is a state that I'm going to change now, by the way. Sammy, remember, if some nasty old witch", he shot Ruby a glare, "tries to touch you in inappropriate places, kick her in the balls and scream."  
"Thanks, I will try to remember", his brother replied and pulled a face when he extracted a piece of popcorn from a hair strand.

  
 Dean made his way through the bumbling crowd to the food vendor and bought a new bag, because, god damn, it has been a while since he had that tasty popcorn and Sam could call him hoggish all he wanted, he was sure as hell not going to pass up this grand opportunity.If only he could shrug off that feeling of being watch-  
His eyes fell on a man, maybe a guest, Dean thought absentmindedly, who seemed to have made it his life goal to gouge two holes in Dean's back just by staring at him. Athletic build, a square jaw and an attractive stubble, not that Dean could tell. Messy dark hair, blue eyes, blue tie. A beige trench coat. Dean shuffled uneasily and noticed that he was standing next to Anna, who had changed her clothes by now, standing offside and chatting with the creep. The man's eyes flickered back to her and he said something, to which she laughed in reply and touched his shoulder. Dean found himself oddly self conscious and straightened his tie.

  
He told himself to get going, when a short man with sly eyes joined them, clothed in a well fitted suit. He said something and laid his hands on their shoulders.  
To Dean, he was unsettling. Maybe it was the way he held himself so confidently or his predator smile.    
It reminded him of those corrupt politicians that Sam was hopefully charging- making sure they got their just punishment and what not. It was kind of funny, Dean thought wryly, that he caught the criminals, and Sam was the one to make sure they ended up in jail. Working perfectly in sync to keep people safe.    
The break ended soon thereafter, and the three people left, leaving Dean to return to his brother and Ruby.  
"Look", he told her with a smirk, "I've got more ammunition."  
She rolled her eyes.  
  
They then returned to the hall,  and to Dean's surprise thick golden bars were jutting out of the ground, curving towards the center of the room.  
Dean inspected them closer and noticed detailed pictures and patterns engraved in the poles.  
They were warm and oddly pulsating to touch, a rhythmic pounding that passed through his fingers and wandered up his arm.  
He had expected some sort of more elaborate scenery, but having built up something like this within half an hour was simply beyond belief.  

  
"What is this?", he asked.  
"It's a cage", Ruby said, as she sat down, "for the next performers."  
"What, so their act is so bad they don't want people to jump at their throats?"  
"No, you dunce. It's for our protection."  
"Might have been more useful for the last act then."  
Ruby smiled smugly in response, "We'll see about that."

  
Down on the stage two men were standing, eyes shut and bodies limp like puppets on a string, each of them on the opposite end of the scene and Dean was concerned for a moment that they might be dead.  
The one to his side was brunette and had a strong jaw that reminded him painfully of his father's. He couldn't see his face.  
On the other end stood a blond, hair slicked back, eyes small and forehead big.  
Both of them were well built and bare chested, lax muscles resting beneath their skin.  
The lights went out but the bars emitted a soft glow, barely illuminating the room.

  
"Welcome back, dear guests. We hope you enjoyed our show so far and that the intermission was pleasant. However we must ask you to hold onto your hats tightly now, as this act will blow you off your seats!  
Ladies and Gentlemen, it's the fight of the century. Give it up for the Archangel brothers, Michael and Lucifer!"  
Dean wondered why they had chosen these stage names, but his train of thought was interrupted by the sudden silence upon the end of the applause.  
There was no musical accompaniment.  
It was dead quiet, the audience watching the dull lit stage for any signs of action with bated breath.

  
Then the men opened their eyes, bodies flaring into life. Like a machine with turning cogs and wheels that slowly move past the initial friction to a slick cooperation between its parts.  
They first tensed their muscles, stretching their limbs and testing their bodies. Feeling the skin atop of sinews and bones.  
Both of them eventually started approaching each other carefully, the dark haired one, Michael, Dean heard Ruby telling his brother, with a forceful gait and set shoulders, Lucifer with a high held head and arms behind his back, until less than a meter separated them right in the middle of the stage.  
Michael laid a hand on his brother's arm.     
And Lucifer looked at him with a look of such sorrow, eyebrows knit together in pity that Dean couldn't help himself but wonder what story the two of them were trying to tell.  
Lucifer reached out and punched Michael with a sickening crunch in the face and suddenly music started playing, loud drums and saxophones and crescendos upon crescendos.

Michael stumbled several steps backwards, nearly losing his balance, then took long strides towards his brother and tackled him to the ground, rolling over each other and throwing fists with such a conviction and force, such raw power, that Dean thought he was going to be sick.  
It was only later that he realized that a display of such violence was quite odd for a vaudeville show.

  
Michael slammed Lucifer on his back, yanked his hair upwards and brought his own boot to Lucifer's back, the brother winding and hissing beneath him and his bones and muscles started shifting and cracking, his shape stretching and shrinking until all that was left of him was a huge serpent, a python, slithering out of Michael's grip.  
The brother roared in response and the ground shook. He lunged at the snake, claws extending from his fingers and hair growing rapidly.  
Thus the lion and the serpent faced each other in an endless battle.  
And when the predator sank its teeth into the flesh of the python, it reared up, sparking energy and life, spiraling upwards towards the ceiling and his brother followed suite.  
And when Lucifer was thunder, growling sound zigzagging on a path of destruction across the hall, Michael was lightning, bright and striking power that slew his enemy and pushed him to the ground.  
But when both of them collided directly, their changes were instantaneous and awesome.  
Waves of water crashing against a wall of fire, quickly replaced by a cougar, ripping wounds into the hide of a majestic buffalo. Back to the trembling electricity that hummed with every clash, tendrils of its might that extended up to inches in front of Dean's face, where the sparks hit whatever was held up by the bars with a loud bang, before they disappeared into thin air, leaving nothing but the scent of ozone behind.  
And when the act ended and both of them got distilled back to two young men, Lucifer lay a hand on Michael's cheek.

  
It took the audience a moment to realize what they had seen and to understand that it had come to an end.  
But what followed then was the most thunderous applause Dean had ever heard.  
When the brothers left the stage, Sam turned to Dean and whispered excitedly: "The headliner is next! Ruby told me about him, he's supposed to be a real genius. The best of them all, you know?"  
"Yeah? What does he do?"  
  
The voice resurfaced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed the show so far. But now, what you've all been waiting for. The true highlight of the show, a master of words and parables! We present you, our beloved raconteur, Castiel!"  
To Dean's surprise, the same man he had seen with Anna in the intermission entered the stage.  
He hadn't changed his outfit, it was still the same trenchcoat and suit, the same tousled hair. He waved his hand awkwardly at the audience. Somebody placed a microphone on the scene and quickly scrambled away.

  
Castiel tapped the device and it screeched loudly, spectators flinching upon the sound.  
He squinted his eyes and cocked his head.  
Jesus, Dean thought, what a tool.

  
"Hello", the man began, his dulcet voice startling Dean with its deepness and rough edge.  
"I apologize for that noise, this microphone has the bad habit of malfunctioning at times."  
He smiled lopsidedly and it was the sincerest thing Dean had seen in years.  
"As you might know I am a storyteller and it is my pleasure to provide you with the most interesting and heart wrenching tales.  
However, I require your help."  
He didn't look like a storyteller, Dean thought. More like a tax accountant, maybe.

  
His gaze swept across the audience and Dean noticed that the golden bars from earlier had vanished.    
"My stories are always different from each other and it is up to you to decide in which ways. Please, do tell me what you wish to hear! Don't be shy!"  
People started murmuring.  
Finally a fragile woman spoke up, asking tenderly: "Could you tell a love story?"  
Castiel nodded and Dean groaned- not his favorite genre. In his opinion they tended to be sappy and cringe-worthy.  
And worst of all the authors usually left out the best parts.

  
Another man quickly added: "Do add murders in it! Oh, they always spice up a story!"  
And Dean snorted, because way to make the story tackier than it was going to be.

  
"Do you have any prompts?"  
Castiel was staring point blank at Dean now, eyes piercing him in anticipation. Not judging, but curious it seemed. Honest, like everything else about him, his face, his posture, his gestures.  
"Who, me?"  
"I meant the handsome man with the green tie." There was no trace of irony in his face.  
In fact it was completely devoid of any emotion, blank and unreadable.  
Dean felt heat rising to his ears and put on his cockiest grin.  
"Actually I do", he said, "if you don't mind?"  
"Go ahead."  
"I want pies in the story. The taste is up to you", he added, "artistic freedom, you know."  
"Quite the odd suggestion, I must say. I can't claim to have gotten this request before."  
"So, does this mean you can do it?"

  
Dean tried to hold up the eye contact without obviously breaking into sweat.  
"Of course."  
His eyes were ridiculously blue.  
And then Castiel clasped his hands and said: "Let me tell you the story of the sailor and the bakery girl."  
  
  
  
  
The audience quieted down and a simple melancholic melody resounded from the piano.  
He opened his mouth and started talking, voice resounding in the hall and letters pouring off his tongue, hovering and jittering in cursive font in the air.

  
"There once lived in a small town, right at the sea coast, a young girl, barely a woman."  
Below the fading sentence a monochrome picture appeared, crisp black silhouettes of people in front of an intricate background.  
It reminded Dean of shadow play, with its shakiness and flowing movements.  
The described girl appeared: braided hair and a slender figure, twirling about in a dress next to a cozy building with white ornaments. Through the window, a stout man appeared to be handing another person a loaf and Dean believed to smell the scent of freshly baked bread. On the counter were countless cakes, every single one lovingly crafted and detailed beyond belief- Dean could see black cherries and meringue, dark chocolate lattices atop of white pies.  
"Her father was a renown baker who provided the village with fresh pastries and he was an honest man with good intentions but a fiery temper, often acting capriciously- much to the dismay of his family.  
The man behind the counter, obviously the father, tore of his apron and stomped out of the shop, silently screaming and waving his arms at his now dejected daughter.  
"But then he disappeared from the girl's life, just like that from one day to the next."  
The image of the stout man vanished with a puff of black smoke.

  
"As the sole heiress of his shop, she took over the family business. And despite her grief, she poured her heart into the work and continued the legacy, since that was all she had left. In fact, her natural talent exceeded the skills of her father by far and she found her goods, some of which she developed and refined on her own, becoming more popular than ever. People from far away towns and cities, even from other countries across the sea, came to visit her humble bakery and taste her olive breads and angel cakes."  
More people and baked goods popped up, as the weeping girl was flattening pastry with a rolling pin.  
"However her best work was her apple pie." Castiel looked at Dean for a split second, causing the latter to shift in his seat.  
"It was a divine piece of work, the taste so sweet and rich, so addictive that the rumor went that anyone, who ate a slice would never want to taste something else again."  
The smell of cinnamon and raisins filled the air, causing Dean's stomach to grumble.

  
"But the girl was unhappy, for all her life she had stayed in this town, despite her longing to discover what was beyond the endless sea. On top of that, during the months and years of her devoted work, she had lost all her friends. Even her personality suffered from the excessive labor- her joyful and cordial demeanor slowly devolving into a mere shadow of its past state."

  
"One day a ship moored, harboring young men from a foreign country that were transporting rare goods and who made a stopover to restock their supplies."  
The ship was colored in a stark white, with small, dark hatches puncturing the sides. A row of men in striped pullovers poured out, carrying and flipping large crates artfully between them, out of and into the ship in a never ending cycle. One man in particular stood out, buff and with an inverted color scheme. He strode into the bakery, turning his head to inspect his surrounding. His gaze fell on the girl and she noticed him as well.

  
"One of the sailors found his way into the bakery and like all the others before him, he found himself delighted by all the pastries.  
And during his stay, he returned again and again to the store and soon he befriended the girl and both of them fell in love with each other."  
The sailor lifted the bakery girl over the counter and twirled her about. They laughed silently and she pecked his cheek and buried her head in his arms.

  
"For the first time in years, she was truly happy. But the sailor, who had come out of nowhere into the girl's life, couldn't and wouldn't stay with her, as he knew that this place was wrong for him and that he would have to leave."  
The man dropped the woman to the floor, got down on one knee and took her hand.  
"Instead he wanted to elope with her and leave the bakery, the entire village behind. He wanted to take her with him on the ship and sail away, get married in his hometown."

  
The woman lifted her hand from his and turned away.  
"But how could she? The bakery was all that she had left and she couldn't possibly forsake her father. And she begged her sailor to stay, but the ship was to leave on the next day and there was nothing they could do."  
The girl sank to her knees and covered her eyes, crying silently as her lover left.

  
"She was distressed and the thought that they would soon be separated drove her mad. However she got an idea."  
The girl was moving hastily in the kitchen, throwing salt shakers and flower bags about. There was nothing left of the lighthearted elegance that characterized her performance at the beginning and it made Dean uneasy of what was to come.

  
He was completely immersed in the story, like the rest of the audience. Listening to Castiel's voice, the intonation and volume somehow always fitting perfectly and watching the trembling sentences that he spew and the pictures that he wove.

  
"If her apple pie was so delicious and addictive, surely he would have to return and stay with her! So she baked and poured her whole heart into the pastry, filling and kneading with such love and despair that truly, the result was incomparable and perfect in every single way."  
The scenery dissolved and changed like smoke, until the girl was standing at the harbor, mussed hair in the furious wind, embracing the sailor and handing him the pie.  
"At his departure she told him to eat it soon or else it would turn bad."  
Waving as the ship went off to the sea.

  
"About half an hour after having been given the cake, the sailor got hungry and decided to eat a slice. But when he first took a bite he became so entranced and so delighted by its perfect taste, that he simply couldn't stop. And even after devouring the entire pie it simply wasn't enough and overcome by a great need he jumped into the stormy sea to swim back."  
As the man made his way through the water, his head kept disappearing beneath giant waves and bobbing back up again.  
Dean counted the seconds in between.  
The head disappeared- one, two, three- the head bobbed back up again.  
The head disappeared- one, two, three- the head bobbed back up again.  
"But it was to no avail."  
The head disappeared- one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten....  
"In the end he drowned."  
Dean felt his heart sink.

  
"The bakery girl was waiting every single day for him and when his remains finally got flushed ashore, she knew. And she was devastated."  
The woman was kneeling on the beach, cradling him in her lap and sobbing. Her entire body trembled as she brushed algae and hair out of his swollen, pallid face and bent over to kiss his forehead tenderly.  
"The rest of her life she not only had to live with the guilt of his death but also with the knowledge that it wasn't their love that made him attempt to return, but a pie. Flower, butter, sugar and apples.  
"And despite her grief, she poured her heart into the work and continued the legacy, since that was all she had left. "  
The image of the girl with red rimmed eyes in the bakery, cutting circles out of flattened dough faded eventually and so did the last sentence.  
The audience was silent.

  
Castiel waited a moment, then bowed and left the stage.  
To say that Dean was stunned would have been a drastic understatement.  
There he sat, completely dazed by the experience and wondering just how the story could have such a great start and end so dissapointingly.  
  
  
  
  
It was something that bothered him even during the next performance, an odd display of strongmanship by the proclaimed "freak". And it still bothered him, when he exited the hall a little bit later than than his brother and Ruby, and saw Castiel slipping backstage through a door at the far end of the corridor.    
He could have let it go, of course- it was just a story, after all.  
But Dean's heart was full of boldness, his head full of vibrant and exciting images and his stomach full of popcorn and hamburger.  
"Hey",he shouted on the spur of the moment, "trenchcoat!"  
Could he really be blamed?

  
Castiel spun around, eyes narrowing already in confusion at the nickname. Dean took the chance to walk quickly up to him, waving his hand briefly. One foot already in the threshold, one hand on the doorknob, but Castiel waited.  
The man scrutinized him carefully. "I know you", he finally said.  
Dean didn't think it was possible, but up close Castiel's eyes were even bluer somehow.  
"Yeah, I'm the dude with the green tie." He grinned and pointed ostentatiously at it. "Gave you the pie prompt." Dean stuck out his hand for him to shake.  
"Dean Winchester."  
Castiel stared at his hand the way others might look at a tropical fish.

  
"Uh", Dean replied and lowered it slowly, dude was fucking weird, "I just wanted to say I really liked your story."  
Something in Castiel's eyes softened at that. He let the door fall shut. "Thank you", he replied, "it's much apprecia-"  
"It's just, you know, the ending is kind of a bummer."  
"I'm sorry?"

  
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "I was wondering why you didn't let them stay together, happy ever after and all."  
The other man raised his eyebrows. "Are you doubting my artistic choices?"  
"Don't get me wrong, but it did kind of suck at the end."  
"And what exactly made you think that?" Castiel stepped closer. "Mister..."  
"Winchester", Dean repeated, slightly irritated already. "Was it really necessary for that sailor to drown?"  
"Yes."  
"Wow. Talking about artistic choice, that's just a dick move, seriously."  
Castiel huffed.

"That's how the story was layed out, it was meant this way. I just did my job."  
"Come on, are you seriously going to give me this 'kissed by a muse' bullshit? Don't you write the stories?"  
He looked mildly offended at Dean. "Of course I do."  
"So what's the deal, why don't you just change the end?" Castiel shook his head, eyes glinting indignantly.  
"I only tell authentic stories. Censoring the pitfalls of life, omitting all the tragedies- it would be wrong. The nature of my stories is to unveil the truth about humanity."

  
"Yeah, yeah, life is terrible and hard. Nothing new here."  
Castiel furrowed his brows. "No. That would be a very stark simplification and grossly incorrect." He paused and tilted his head.  
"You don't actually believe that, do you?"  
"Of course not", Dean interjected all too quickly, feeling distinctly anxious, "but sorry, dude, that's pretty much what your story boils down to. Girl and boy fall in love, boy dies, girl cries. The end. There's nothing fresh about that, this dead horse has been unveiled before already."  
He saw Castiel's jaw clench in annoyance. "The more you talk, the more I'm afraid that you haven't quite grasped its meaning yet."

  
Dean felt a pang of hurt and anger rising up quickly. And retrospectively, he wasn't sure why he continued digging a hole for himself.  
Maybe it was because he was interested in Castiel and his explanations. Maybe it was because he actually cared about the story as such. But probably, Dean simply wanted to spite him.  
"No, I get it, you've got to keep face, so you can't admit that you just use some old tropes. It's alright."  
"It's called structure", Castiel said, "That's the way the story is supposed to run."  
"Yeah, but who cares, man. It's your thing, you do what you want, right?"  
Cas breathed in sharply and closed his eyes in exasperation.  
"I'm sorry but, no, it isn't just 'my thing' and I can't simply 'do what I want'. There are rules that need to be followed. But I am aware this concept must be hard for you to grasp."  
"Yeah? Care to explain then, smartass?"  
His eyes snapped open. "It's Castiel", he thundered, "And to make you understand would be a Sisyphean challenge."  
"Try me."

  
Castiel blinked in confusion and bewilderment.  
"It would undermine the whole purpose of it", he said slowly, "The girl used her skills for a selfish cause and was punished for it. This is the way of the world setting things right. There is no other form of absolution in this case."

  
"No, this is you being a lazy ass writer, who is too scared to deviate from the norm. Just because of some fancy moving pictures-"  
"Listen", Castiel said, crowding suddenly into Dean's personal space, voice rumbling cautionary, "We don't know each other. What gives you the audacity to talk like this to me? I am the headliner of this show and have been honing my skills for years. I am sought after by millions, people travel across the ocean to see me. And I am not going to let an ignoramus like you dictate my performance. You should show me some respect."

  
If looks could kill, Dean would have ceased to exist in that very moment. There wouldn't have been any sort of ashes or bones, but he simply would have vanished from the face of earth by the sheer intensity of Castiel's gaze.  
Dean heard his brother call for him and he spun thankfully around, spotting him near the exit. When he turned back to Castiel, the man was already gone.  
He cursed and joined Sam and his girlfriend- maybe it was for the better that the jerk had left.  
  
  
"What the hell? Wasn't that a performer- the storyteller, right?", Sam asked when they finally left the theater, "Do you know that guy?"  
"Nah. Just an average asshole."  
"Looks like Dean finally found himself a friend!", Ruby exclaimed.  
Dean scowled in response.  
"At least you enjoyed it!", Sam said. "Aren't you glad you came along?"  
"Well, I'm not glad that she came along."  
"What's that? Thank you, Ruby, that you got me a ticket to the most mind blowing show I've ever see? Wow, that's so nice of you, Winchester."

  
Sam gave Dean a stern look.  
"What," Dean said irritatedly and his brother boxed him in the arm.  
"Alright, Jesus, don't get your knickers in a twist. Thanks, for the ticket, I guess. You're on the right road, more of these acts and you might get a seat in hell with a better view. Happy?"  
"That's the best it gets", Sam said and Ruby threw up her hands.  
Dean almost smiled at her exasperated sigh.

  
But when he finally drove them back to Sam's apartment, he couldn't help but feel odd: The experience of something he didn't recall having for years. It was a thick layer of comfort and peace, warm and heavy, that muffled the multitude of emotions that still swirled within him and almost snuffing them out.  
    
   
   



	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes Dean smelled rotting flesh in the wind.  
Felt grime beneath his fingernails, wet clothes clinging heavily to his body, the itch of lice beneath his helmet. Somebody to his right yelled, the sound of exploding grenades in a traverse just several meters away from him, screaming in his ears.

  
He couldn't help them, and some part, small and filthy, was glad not to. Not here, where one wrong movement could mean his end.  
Dean's gun slipped in his hands but there was nowhere to wipe them: Rain was pouring from the sky and cloaking every surface it could find, the water pooling into his boots and sloshing around his knees.  
A counter attack from the other side shook the earth, followed by a cloud of smoke that shrouded him and a group of his fellow fighters, making his eyes water and burn. Dean wiped at his face and gritted his teeth, heart thumping to the rattle of the machine guns.

  
Pushing against wood and sludge he peered through the sight. Barren, muddy land, rows of dead bodies hanging limply in the barbwire like scarecrows. He had eaten breakfast with some of them just days ago. About fifty yards in the distance was the enemy line. He saw something move behind the earth wall and reacted mechanically, steady, aim, fire. He didn't need to think about it, finger trailing around the rain slick trigger, he was a natural.  
Another soldier let out a blood curdling scream, desperate and feral. Dean saw out of the corner of his eyes somebody dropping into the water with a splash, like a marionette cut loose from its strin-  
  
Dean opened his eyes. Saw white ceiling, shadows dancing across thin cracks and bumps, lights flickering between the blinds. He moved his limbs and found them dry and warm, tucked under a thin blanket.  
He sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, it was a nightmare.

He was well beyond the stage in which he would bolt up with a yell, clinging to thin air and finding it harder to breathe than he should. But that didn't mean the nightmares sat easier.  
Dean brushed matted hair off his sticky forehead and sat up, blinking at the clock on his night stand.    
It was a small brass device with delicate hands. It was the only thing that survived the fire in which his mother had died because at the time of the tragedy the clock was malfunctioning and in a workshop for reparation.  
And Dean wound it up with gentle hands and thoughtful movements every night before he went to sleep.  
Apparently it was three in the morning, which sounded about right.

Dean got up and padded to the window, opening it just enough to let the wind pass through. Over the years this had become a sort of nightly ritual, whenever he awakened from a bad dream.  
The scattered noise of the streets beneath him and the slow and steady ticking of the clock eventually drowned the screams. Grounded him. Dean didn't know a single man who had been to the Great War but hadn't returned with scars one way or another, he was by far nothing special. Just one man, who had happened to survive.

He made his way to the bathroom, splashed cold water in his face, the shock pushing the last shred of memories back into his mind, reeling him back to the present.  
It was quiet in the room, water dripping slowly from his skin.  
The year is 1923, he told himself, New York, you're in your apartment.  
He had gotten it from Missouri Mosely, an old friend of his father's. Now, John Winchester had been many things when he was still alive, but being racist wasn't one of them. If the person was righteous, he didn't care about their skin color or religion and the same applied to the opposite.  
Maybe that's why he made such a good cop and maybe that was also the reason for his demise, when he finally tracked down the man who had burned down John's old life together with his house and wife.

Dean walked into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and rummaged in it, reached beyond old cans of beans to pull out an unlabeled bottle, the liquid swashing in it darkly.  
The shake in his hands wasn't going to go away by itself. He uncorked the bottle, poured the drink into a glass and took a long swig, the alcohol warming him up from the inside. Sam called it unhealthy, Dean called it his panacea.

Dean's gaze wandered through the room, taking up the kitchen counter and the few pots he owned.  
Missouri was left in charge of several buildings after her husband had passed away. And when she had heard that Dean was looking for an apartment, after having been bumming out on Sam's couch for months, she whacked him on his head and told him that she had an empty apartment, the tenant had just moved out not long ago, and that he was an idiot for not having told her earlier. Dean sighed and looked at the bottle.  
It was the last one he had, Ellen would have to sell him new ones soon. And though all of her liquors tasted nearly the same, her speakeasy was still as popular as ever, though Dean wasn't technically supposed to know about that. Technically he shouldn't be drinking this either. There were a lot of things Dean was technically not supposed to do.  
  
  
  
Even after eating and drinking in peace, he still had plenty of time before work started, so he decided to walk instead of drive and to take a detour through the park.  
Normally he would try to shut an eye once more in vain, inadvertedly running late, when he finally dozed off into an uneasy slumber. And if his brother knew that Dean passed on the opportunity to drive his car and prefered to walk even once, he would probably never live it down. As much as Dean loved his baby, sometimes the need to stretch his legs, to feel ground beneath them was overwhelming.

While his apartment wasn't all too luxurious, it had a fairly pleasant location: Situated in the city center, which made it easy to get around, but close enough to a park to offer him the occational respite. Admittedly, he wasn’t that fond of nature, not like his brother, who used to drag him from shrub to shrub when they were still kids.  
Dean was more of a city person, loving the bustling and crowded streets.  
The chattering of businessmen, the honks of cars and the neighs of horses soothed him in a way that nothing quite could.  
Except, certainly, that vaudeville show.

However something about the garden spoke to him, the way weeds were sprouting carelessly from the ground, the way it was a small, isolated island in a sea of high rise buildings.  
He pulled his jacket closer. Just how could it be so freezing, if the sun was shining that brightly?  
Dean walked past the trees, breathing in the cool, fresh air, the gritty scent of asphalt and fumes lingering in the background.  
Red leaves were dancing in the air almost magically and reminded him of trapezes and fluttering feathers.  
He reminisced about the show, the theater, what was its name? Utopian Magical something, something. They shouldn't have picked such a long name. It was an odd one at that, fitting an equally odd place.  
It had been a few weeks since he visited it with Sam but ever since he had made it a habit to watch the show every day after work.

This part of the park in particular was somewhat untended, not being exactly the priority of the government.  
He had never explored the entirety of it, couldn't be bothered to- he wasn't visiting that often. At this time of the day it was usually rather quiet, maybe the occational carriage passing by but by the evening it was normally a lot more crowded.  
There was a broad path snaking its way through the bushes (it made him think of wild electricity sparking inbetween cage bars)  and in the center was a small pond, murky water gently stirring in the autumn wind (a stormy sea, a head bobbing up and down and words hovering in mid air).

The image of Castiel popped involuntarily into his head, with his stupidly tousled hair and narrowed eyes.  
Dean decided that he was a kind of asshole fitting his equally asshole-y stories.  
Destiny and fate and all that hubbub aside, honestly Dean couldn't care less what that storyteller believed in, it's kind of a dick move to let all your heroes die in horrifying ways or spend the rest of their lives in crippling agony.  
Hell, the latter wasn't even something Dean would wish his worst enemies, he had to know after all.  
He just couldn't understand why the characters still had to suffer when their story was already at its end. Real life sucked enough, there was no point in spoiling fiction as well.

Dean tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, turning around the corner. He would arrive soon.  
Besides, there was really no need to act so condescendingly and be rude, he hadn't done anything wrong after all! And now that dick was also in the process of ruining his morning, as if he needed someone's help for that.

  
His enthusiasm from his younger days had diminished over the years, when he realized becoming a cop wasn't all about reuniting families, saving people and hunting down criminals,  but more about spending most of his time behind a desk, reading through files and arresting the occational drunkard.  
True, there was a lot to do, given that literally nobody gave a fuck about the Prohibition: Most people bought booze, some sold it and trying to enforce the law ended up becoming somewhat like attempting to stop a crashing wave with a piece of paper.  
It just wasn’t what he expected, back then when he accepted his shield and Bobby grinned and slapped his back, “Welcome, son”, he had said.  
But at least he kept him busy, gave him a good feeling of being needed.

Dean kicked a pebble in front of him carelessly, watched it skitter away. Castiel, he sneered, what kind of name is Castiel anyway?  
Dean found himself at a juncture, already outside of the park and thought, if I turned right, walked all the way down here, I'd get back to the show. I could sit down, soak in the surrounding, the acts.    
It was all so easy and tempting.

Dean shook his head and eventually he arrived at the police station, all discolored bricks stacked upon each other.  
When he entered, he was greeted by the smell of fresh ink, detergent and the sound of a familiar voice.  
“Looking good today, Dean!”  
He turned his head to find Jody Mills sitting behind a typewriter and smiling up at him. She was early as usual, always one of the firsts to begin her shift.  
"Very funny. Good morning to you, too." Jody had been working here ever since he had started and was somewhat of a mentor, no, a friend to him. The first conversation they’d had had been on Dean’s first day when she had given him the directions to the restroom after having watched him wander down the corridors in vain.

  
"Tough night?", she asked sympathetically, she knew about the nightmares. Dean shrugged his shoulders in reply.  
"The usual. How's Owen?"  
She simply rolled her eyes. "You know him, boys will be boys. He's in that age." She smiled and turned back to her work.  
Jody had lost her husband in the war, left behind with her teenage boy. Sometimes Dean came over to fix her leaking faucet. Jody often bought groceries for him, when he came back late from work and sometimes they would have a drink together.  
He said good bye, greeted Garth, got briefed on his job (it turned out to be more or less the same as usual) and moved on to his desk.

Maybe he should have drunk more, he thought wryly, as he picked up the first file for that day. Thankfully he'd go out on a patrol later on, but for the time being he was stuck behind his desk.  
Missing person report, he noted, neither frequent nor rare enough to raise any attention. A young man, hardly older than Dean, simply didn't return home.  
"What are you looking at?" Dean spun around, not having heard the man approaching until he was behind him.  
"Oh, hey! Fancy seeing you around, Bobby. Thought you holed up in that office of yours for good."  
The man huffed, eyes still trained on the file. "Captain Singer, idjit", he corrected absentmindedly "and that's none of your business."

A normal officer would have been punished easily for talking to his superior that way, but Dean had known Bobby ever since his father loaded him and Sam off on Bobby's front porch, back in his old house on the countryside, to track down the murderer of his wife. It was hard to call a man 'captain', who had taught you to play baseball at the age of seven and from whom you knew that he could drink like a fish.

Bobby furrowed his brows.  
"How the hell did you even get access to these files?" Dean shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands disarmingly.  
"Dude, that's what I was told to do, alright. It's called work. I'm doing my job."  
"You? Paperwork?" He squinted his eyes and Dean thought about reminding him to get a pair of glasses."Very funny."  
"Did you get those out of my bureau?", Bobby asked, lifting the file from the desk.  
"No! Who do you take me for? Why would I want to go steal work out of your office?"  
Bobby huffed and flipped through the pages. "I've seen stranger things, son." He finally dropped the documents back on the desk with a satisfying thud.  
"And?"  
"I was wrong, it's another case", Bobby said gruffly.  
"See? Besides, if I really did snoop around, I wouldn't read this stuff in public", Dean said with a grin.  
"Is this supposed to be some sort of innuendo?", Bobby asked with a raised eyebrow.  
"Nah, man, I'm just kidding. What was that about anyway? Serial killer stuff? Organized crime?"  
"Like I'd tell you. This is highly sensitive information, Dean, I can't just go around telling everybody about it."  
"Maybe I could help, you know. Just get me on the case and I-"  
Bobby shook his head. "We talked about this already. You ain't getting any of the big stuff, until we're absolutely sure about your mental condition."  
"Damn it, Bobby, I can handle it!"  
"Oh, shut up, I'm not going to have this discussion with you again. Just keep working and it'll clear up by itself."  
Bobby turned away, hesitated briefly before he leaned into Dean.  
"It's a string of disappearances, s'been going on for a while now. That's all I can tell you." He gave Dean a knowing look, patted his shoulder and left the desk, Dean could see him wandering through the aisles and inspecting the other officers. He knew it was Bobby's way of procratinating.

  
The rest of the day passed uneventfully in a blur, however Dean couldn't help but thinking about Bobby's words. Sam had told him about Dean's nightmares and Bobby had his doubts about employing him in the first place. But working power was needed after the war and he really couldn't be choosy about his employees. Dean tried to put his mind on other topics, tried to stop thinking about what would be, if Bobby just called him off stupid desk work and made him do useful things.  
The closest thing with purpose Dean was tasked to do, was supervising his department on the upcoming inspection day.  
It was only after the end of the work day, when he slipped back into his seat at TUMCONY, that the gnawing "what if"s ceased swirling through his head and dancing behind his eyes and there was quiet, the hole in his mind instantly filled by bright lights and dazzling smiles.

  
  
  
When the show ended, Dean made his way to the foyer when he noticed Anna standing at the far end of it, still costumed. Her eyes darted mischieviously from side to side before she beckoned him over with the movement of her index finger.  
He turned around, surely she couldn't mean him. Most of the patrons had left already, a few of them were still engrossed in conversations.

  
"Me?", he mouthed and pointed at himself.  
Anna nodded slowly and grinned. "Follow me", her lips formed and she disappeared through the door she was standing in front of. It made his mouth go dry at the thought, just what could she possibly want?  
He hesitated a moment, before he opened the door, Dean noted it was the same one Castiel had vanished through. He looked over his shoulders, licked his lips. Was he really allowed to trespass and enter backstage?  
Dean waited for the right moment and slipped behind the door.

  
He found himself in an aisle, bustling with life, workers hurrying from room to room, carrying various equipments, some of them busy cleaning.    
Anna had just come out of the dressing room, having changed her feathery costume, in no time, to a knee length dress that shimmered in a light blue, taking on a different shade with each step. She ran her fingers through her short, bright hair in an attempt to smooth it down.  
When she saw Dean across the corridor, her eyes lit up and she walked over to him.  
"Oh, I'm so glad you could make it!", she exclaimed. Dean took her hand gingerly and planted a light kiss on the back of her hand.  
"The pleasure is all mine", he said and smiled at her surprised expression.  
"A charmer, aren't we?", she said with a hint of amusement.

  
He couldn’t help but notice the dark circles around her eyes, which could testify her participation at a prolonged nightly party and therefore not enough sleep. In that state she was in she had to be careful not to catch a cold or any other disease, because her immune system surely couldn’t bare much more work.  
"Dean Winchester, right?"  
He startled. "From where do you know my name?"  
"Well, you're the guy with the pie prompt! Castiel won't stop talking about you!"  
What the hell. "Castiel?", Dean asked, "Are you sure? Dude hates me."  
 Anna tilted her head, eyes flickering thoughtfully. "I don't think so. The point is, that I wanted to make my own impression. I couldn't help but notice you in the audience!"  
"And what's that impression like?"  
"Awfully positive", she said with a laugh, "I have no idea why Castiel was so adamant about you!"  
Dean found himself curious about what Castiel was talking about him, not that he really cared. He just had to make sure that he wasn't getting a bad reputation over here, that's all.

  
"So, this isn't your first time here! I suppose you like the show?"  
"Definitely! It looks as if you are even getting better with every one of your performances. Did you sell your soul for that gift?” Dean laughed and Anna grinned brightly, not able to disguise being flattered.  
"Oh, I'm sure you’ll be disappointed, those old tricks are not as difficult as they may look like. If you want, I might as well teach you some!", she said with a wink.

Anna leaned in, one hand touching his arm conspirationally.  
"Do you want to see what it's like behind the scenes?", she whispered. "I could give you a tour."  
When he affirmed, she replied: "Fantastic! Just make sure you're always behind me, it's rather easy for newcomers to get lost here!"  
That, Dean could believe. Anna was able to navigate through the long, winding corridors with ease, yet he already felt as if he was pitch forked into a labyrinth.    
She gestured him to follow, quickly leaping ahead and Dean found it suprisingly hard to keep up with her, dodging the hurrying workers occationally.

  
"There are three floors, each one is dealing with something different. This one is really the most versatile, basically anything that needs to be in reach before the show is on here. Dressing rooms, make up, some of the props- the bulkier ones are in the basement, which is by the way where we keep the animals, too. Don't worry, it's a really huge cellar, larger than anything I've seen before, so the animals are alright!"  
Anna darted around the corner and stopped in front of  a peculiar door, warm wood and iron forming a sort of cage with intricate lattices that knotted into various geometric patterns, reaching from nearly the top of the wall to the floor.  It was only upon the second glance, that Dean saw a button next to it and realized it was an elevator.

  
"The upper floors are for us, the performers. One up is our training ground, where we practice for new performances and the highest floor is where our private rooms and lounges are."  
"Private rooms?" Dean raised an eyebrow at that, he had never heard of performers actually staying permanently in the same building they were performing in, not to talk about having an actual seperate place to train.  
"Yeah, it's a special offer from Mister Crowley, he owns TUMCONY along with Naomi."  
"TUMCONY?", Dean asked.  
"Hasn't anyone told you? Nobody here calls it 'The Utopian Magical Company of New York', the name is way too long for that. So we just use its acronym."  
Dean rolled the name in his mouth, TUMCONY, he thought. How odd.

  
"It's quite a good deal, I must say. We get everything we could ask for here. Food, drinks, clothes... "  
"So you don't move from theater to theater?"  
She looked at him in confusion. "Why would we? We just come up with new acts, that has always been more than enough."  
Dean opened her the door to the elevator with a quick pull, surprised by how smoothly it moved, and Anna thanked him and entered the cage, quickly followed by Dean. The interior was padded with large, red cushions, the walls covered in papers with elaborate ornaments.

  
"Sounds like you hit a pretty sweet spot here.  How can that Crowley afford everything?"  
She tilted her head. "From the entrance fees, I assume. I think he works in another company as well, so maybe he gets his money from there. I don't really think about that very much."  
 Anna reached to her chest and pulled a frail necklace from her head, glinting silver in the warm light. There was a small pendant dangling on it but Dean couldn't quite make out its shape. She faced a small control pad, he observed, fitting the trinklet into a slot before she pressed a button, it must have been a key. The elevator glid upwards, almost soundlessly.

  
"You know, actually I'm not supposed to take you up with me", she said, "because it's a restricted area. But nobody cares about that anyway. You should see the amount of people here, when Gabe throws a party..."  
With a gentle jolt and the chime of a bell, they arrived on the third floor. Dean stepped out of the elevator, looked around and whistled lowly.

  
"Wow."  
By now it seemed more of a fancy hotel than anything else, he thought.  
The floor was polished marble, thin, white lines running through sharp black, like lightning in the night.  It was covered with several thick carpets, all red and gold with fuzzy strings and on top of them stood dark tables and large chairs with cream colored cushions, giving the viewer the impression of luxury.  
In the center of the room, shielded by wooden walls from which elaborate lamps emitted soft light, was a big fountain. It was distinctly shaped like a flower, clear water running into its white, curved petals and pooling in a round basin in thick streams along the winding stem.  
The pillar extended through the middle of the flower, twisted like a braid and unfurling at the top, letting crystal water spill out in large arcs.  
Honestly? Dean was scared of even breathing in here, scared of disrupting the impeccabilitiy of the room.

  
"Come on", Anna coaxed, nudged him towards the right aisle, an endless row of doors, each one in a different color and shape. Anna had turned around now, walking backwards skillfully.  
"We usually spend our time up here, when we're not performing or practicing, so it can get quite lively he-"  
"Watch out!"    
The door behind her opened abruptly and two people stumbled out, clutching and tugging at each others clothes, tie coming lose and bra straps showing visibly. Anna's head spinned around, almost bumping into them.

  
To Dean's bewilderment it was the magician (Balthazar, wasn't it?) and his assistant, Miss Talbot, who were currently preoccupied with making out intensly.  
Balthazar leaned over to the woman's ear and whispered something, upon which she slapped him and pulled him into another kiss.  
Dean cleared his throat. "Uh", he said. He hadn't expected them to be a couple outside of the show as well.

  
"Well, look at that", Balthazar purred and pulled away from the woman, a large hickey blooming on his neck, "did you finally find yourself a boy toy, Anna? " He shot Dean a scrutinizing look. "Though I must say you that I'm appalled by your choice, he looks like an ape."    
"Quite a handsome specimen then", his assistant added with a smirk, her gaze raking up and down Dean's body, "I'm jealous."  
Dean found himself unsure of whether he should feel aroused or offended.  
"How can you be jealous when you're currently with the sexiest man alive?", Balthazar quipped.  
"Really? Where?"  
"Oh, shut up." They rubbed against each other, lips barely parting for a moan, hair and clothes in a disarray. Dean noted that Balthazar only had one sock on, the woman's garterbelt more than visible.  

  
"That's Dean", Anna started, "I'm showing him a bit around, that's all, but keep it down, alright? Dean, that's Bela and Balthazar."  
Balthazar grunted in response, feeling up Bela, who slapped his hands away playfully.  
"Tell me", Bela said, "is that a magic wand in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"  
"Well, I can assure you that either way it's absolutely magical..."  
Anna pushed Dean onwards, leaving the scene behind.

  
"Sorry about that", she said bashfully, "they're having this on-off thing and fool around whenever they're bored. I don't even know what they're doing outside of their room."  
The sound of the door banging shut rang through the corridor.  
"Probably the same thing as inside", he said with a grin.    
  
She continued showing him the different rooms, pointing at the variety of doors.  
Telling him how Michael and Lucifer's room were each at the other end of the floor, because they couldn't stand each other outside of the show ever since they had that big fallout. Or that Gabriel's room, looking distinctly like the entrance to a brothel, was the closest to the kitchen and that he sometimes snuck into it at night to get a quick snack.

  
At the end of the corridor, there was a door, that seemed to lead to a sort of lounge, a large bookshelf taking up two of the walls. To Dean's surprise a bar was built in, the full liquor shelf glinting promising in the light and he was struck with the realization that he was going to have to report this. On the other hand, it might be a misunderstanding, he thought quickly, maybe it really isn't a bar, you know, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover and all that. Dean's gaze left the counter, trailing to the tables and chairs spread across the room and fuck no.

  
Castiel was sitting in a cushioned arm chair, thumbing through an old book. He looked up, upon hearing their footsteps when they entered and raised an eyebrow, lips parted slightly in surprise.  
"Hello, Anna", he said, "I see you've brought a guest with you?" His eyes lingered on Dean.  
"Oh", she said, eyes darting from him to Castiel, "right. You know each other."  
The grandfather's clock in the back of the room chimed, it was ten p.m. Anna's eyes widened suddenly, clasping her hands in front of her mouth.  
"I just remembered, I promised Meg to help her with her new performance, Jesus! I've got to go! I'm so sorry, Dean, I completely forgot about that- I'll be back in a while, you just stay here!"

  
And with these words, she was already gone, leaving Dean behind with the other man. That was just his luck, of course. Dean couldn't help but feel oddly betrayed. As if this had been planned.  
He shifted beneath Castiel's gaze, cursing under his breath. Just what was up with him?  
Dean made his way to the couch, situated across Castiel's seat.  
"I see you've returned?", the storyteller asked, gaze now directed to his book, small and bound in black leather. Dean snorted.  
"Sorry, dude, but I'm pretty hard to get rid off."  
"I wasn't expressing my disdain."  
 "Yeah, I know that you're just counting the days to see me again", he sneered nonetheless, anwering on reflex.  
Castiel's gaze flickered up again briefly, meeting Dean's across the room and his mind blanked instantly. Dean cleared his throat pointedly, finally making use of his armrest, fingers clinging to it harder than necessary. Something about Castiel put Dean on edge and reminded him of the moment  before it rained heavily on a summer day,  when the warm air almost feels electric on your skin and thunder tears through dark clouds like a foreboding.

  
Castiel was a storm on the brink of existence.  
Dean, on the other hand, was on the brink of being unsettled, having already raced past the line of confusion.

  
 "Come on, cut this crap out. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can tell if someone's bullshitting me."  
Castiel put the book aside. "I'd like to apologize. It seems as if we've had a rough start."  
"Besides- wait, what?"  
"I've been told that maybe my behaviour might have been a bit...", he paused, looking for the right word, "ill-disposed, perhaps."  
"No shit, Sherlock."  
"My name is Castiel, in case you forgot", he replied gruffly, eyes narrowed in annoyance.  
"So, uh. You apologize?" Dean asked tentatively, not sure what to do with this new piece of information. He officially had no idea what to think of Castiel anymore.  
"Yes. I must admit, I'm not used to being criticisized so harshly. You might have been right in a few points."  
"Time to get used to it then."  
"Don't push your luck, Mister Winchester."

  
 And maybe, Dean thought, he had made a mistake and that guy wasn't that bad after all. He seemed sincere enough about his motivations and though Dean knew that people lied, something about Castiel's wooden expression and plain earnestness made him cave in. What could he say, that man knew his way with words.  
"Good job at burying the hatchet", Dean said with a grin, "figuratively, I mean."  
"Thank you. I'd still like to make up for the poor impression I gave you."  
"You know it's all about the first one right? You can't just make a second first impression, dude."  
Castiel raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't advise you to bet on that."  
"Alright then, bring it on", Dean replied with an inviting gesture, "change my mind!"

  
Castiel stood up and walked to Dean. He started talking, voice like grit and pebbles: "My name is Castiel and I am a performer at 'The Utopian Magical Company of New York'. I'm the one who picked you out of the crowd several days ago and raised your anger, for which I'd like to apologize. Nice to meet you."  He extended a hand in Dean's direction, who took hold of it with a smile.  
"Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, I enjoy long walks, fried food and frisky women. Nice tie."

  
"Will this suffice as an adequate second first impression?", Castiel asked.  
"I don't know, man, this is pretty tough, "Dean replied.  
"Would you care for a drink then?"  
"Feeling brave today, aren't we? I'm a cop, you know."  
"I don't think that would diminish your ability to drink or enjoy alcohol."  
Dean snorted. "No, smartass, but offering booze to a police man might not be a clever move."  
Castiel furrowed his eyebrows.  
"Prohibition, does that ring a bell?", Dean asked but the other man just tilted his head.  
"Volstead Act? Come on, stop fucking with me, you're American, right?"  
Castiel nodded.  
"How can anyone not know about it, the law has been around for years already! Dude, you are not supposed to own, transport or drink alcohol, that's culpable."  
"Why?"  
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. A couple of loonies decided it was the source of all evil and decided to ban it, as if they had any idea what really causes the crime rate to shoot through the ceiling."  
"That doesn't seem very effective to me."  
"That's because it isn't. Where the hell have you been the past years, don't you go out?"

  
Castiel stared at him, completely bewildered. "No, why should I? Everything I could want is here."  
"Entertainment? Alcohol? Women?"  
"If we miss anything, Crowley or Naomi find a way to supply us with the best of it."  
"Remind me to get you out of here at some point."  
Dean shook his head, that guy was weird as hell. But if he was completely honest, he would stay all day in as well, if he lived in some kind of palace. But, for years?

  
"My offer still stands by the way", Castiel said.  
"You really wanna take the risk?" Dean waggled his eyebrows.  
"What are you going to do, officer? Arrest me?"  
 The storyteller looked Dean into the eyes with the hint of a smile and walked to the bar, reaching over to grab a bottle of whisky and a glass, the sound of them clinking against the counter filling up the room.  
"I think I'll have to take a closer look at the drink first before I can take any sort of action. You know, to be on the safe side", Dean said and joined Castiel, settling down on a bar stool next to him.  
The storyteller held the now full glass in Dean's direction and the latter accepted it with a smile, his fingers bumping lightly against the others'.  
He took a sip, savoring the rich taste and the warmth it left behind, this wasn't the cheap, diluted booze he got at the Harvelles' at such a low price, only made bearable by mixing in other drinks, that whiskey was good.

  
"I'll be damned", he whispered and stared down his artfully crafted glass.  
"What's the verdict?"  
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to confiscate this. That's quite possibly the best drink I've ever had.  You're forgiven, if you pour me another one." No sooner said than done and Dean found himself slowly relaxing, spirit working its way again. He gestured to the bottle.  
"What about you? You dry?"  
Castiel shrugged his shoulders, peeling at the small label of the bottle.  
"I leave the drinking to the others."  
Dean nodded, mulling over what happened but he still couldn't say that he was any less confused. He stared at Castiel's blank facial expression and tried to grasp something, anything really, to help him understand the other man. It was frustrating how devoid of any emotion it seemed, completely unreadable.  

  
"How did you know that  I wouldn't do anything?"  
"Mister Winchester-"  
"Dean", the other man intevened quickly, "call me Dean."  
 "Dean, it's my job to anticipate the reactions of other people, good stories must surprise after all. You didn't look like you'd decline my offer for a drink."  
"Oh, yeah? Must be because you're such a handsome devil, I'm sure."  
Castiel reached out nimbly instead, taking hold of Dean's left hand, fingers sweeping against Dean's palm and looked up briefly, as if he were asking for permission. Dean swallowed.  
"It's your hands", Castiel said,"they are red and swollen, trembling even. Your fingers are not calloused enough to speak of a physically demanding job and you aren't hurt either, so the likeliest cause is the abundant use of alcohol. And considering your tone of voice, it was safe to assume that you were joking."

  
Castiel had hit the bulls eye, the sentence sending cold shivers up and down Dean's spine. Whereas the storyteller was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, Dean seemed to be an open book.  
They locked eyes and Dean withdrew his hand slowly, knuckles brushing against fingertips.  
"Are you sure your name isn't Sherlock?", he asked.     
"Yes."  
Dean laughed, still nervous about his too accurate assumption, eyes flitting over the other man.  
"What's your deal, Cas?" For a moment emotion fluttered through his face upon hearing the nickname, something Dean couldn't quite place but it was gone as fast as it came.  
"I'm not sure, if I can..."  
   
   
"...follow. Dean? Did you hear me?"  
He blinked dazedly, staring blankly into Bobby's face.  
"Uh", he replied. Bobby rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.    
"I guess we can forget about the case right now. You should dream in bed, not at work, boy."  
Right, he thought, work. He was in Bobby's office right now, lamp to his left, his superior infront of him.  
The lounge and Cas, all this had happened a couple of days ago.  
"I would, if I didn't have to put in overtime." He yawned demonstratively. "It's all about compromises."  
Bobby sighed, tapped his pen against the table.

   
"You know, I think you could use a break."  
Dean raised a brow at the odd statement. "Dude, you alright? If you're getting the flu, I'm out of here."  
"Don't give me that. I know you're working your ass off." Bobby leaned across the desk, index finger pointing at Dean.  
"No back talk. Tomorrow you'll take a day off."  
"Are you sure? Really, I could stay longer, I don't mind."  
"Keep in mind who your boss is. Who tells you to stay how long where and when. Not you, right? You have worked overtime often enough to get a whole damn month off, Dean."  
It wasn't unusual for Dean to stay late into the night at the police station, even if he wasn't assigned a night shift. After all, what was waiting for him back at his apartment? Here at the precinct, he was needed.  
It was way past dusk already, bright city lights streaming through the blinds and glinting off the typewriter.  
"You deserve it, son. Try to get an earful of sleep for once."  
Dean found it difficult to hold Bobby's gaze, so he settled for a lopsided grin.  
"Not sure, if that's gonna work out..."  
"Oh, just get out of my sight, idjit. "  
  
  
  
He slipped out of the police station, baby, how he called his car, rumbling to life beneath him. New York at night, he thought, as he cruised down the streets, was something to behold. In the daytime, the buildings were impressive, but at night they were glorious. Flashing billboards, blinding lights, sweeping across the streets, sequinned dresses and the boisterous laugh of the young and rich.  
Dean supposed he felt a little guilty when he arrived in front of The Harvelles', but what did Bobby expect? Sleep was something intangible for him, there was no point fooling himself about that. Why toss around from side to side, when things could be a lot easier? His life was simple.

Dean walked past the eating patrons and made his way upstairs, creaking steps beneath his weight. He could hear the shouts and laughter of the backroom already.

  
Dean Winchester had learned at an early age that there were exactly three remedies against all ills, he dubbed them affectionately 'The Three Ws': Work, women and whiskey. His father may have been deadbeat, but Dean did pick up one or two maxims from him.  
And as fate wanted it, he found the latter two in the Harvelles' speakeasy.

  
Upon knocking against the door, somebody uncovered the peephole, an eye appearing behind it.  
"It's me", Dean said.  
"You really wanna play this game?"  
"Damn it, Rufus, just open the door."  
The man chuckled and pulled it open, noise crashing into Dean as a welcome gesture.  
"Every single time", Dean said with a sigh, door immediately shutting behind him. "Bobby would have fired you thrice already."  
"Old man has a stick up his ass. You should see him, he cusses up a storm every time he's here." Rufus laughed loudly and slapped Dean's back. The room was large, chairs and people strewn across the wooden floor, tables covered with cloth that probably used to be white at some point.

  
Pam was lounging about the coatroom, leaning smoothly across the counter to pluck Dean's hat and coat from his hands.. She tossed the clothes on the coathooks, pulled the cigarette from between her lips and greeted him with a kiss on his cheek and a squeeze on his biceps.  
"Where did you leave your brother today, sweetie?"  
"Work", Dean replied bemusedly. She threw her head back and laughed. "Poor boy", she said with devious grin, "hasn't learned that you can have both."

  
Dean pressed past the sweating bodies illuminated by a few dim lamps, smoke and the smell of cheap booze hanging thick in the air as the jazz music of the band in the back of the room tore through it with the blare of trumpets. He settled against the bar and greeted Jo, who hardly spared him a smile amidst all the work she had to do.

  
He was aware of the irony of him standing there and under normal circumstances, he would have been chucked out on his ear already. No speakeasy owner would even think about letting a cop in. But Ellen and Bobby- that was long before his time and really, the less he knew about their shared past the better.  
The consequence of it was that she let him, and by extension anyone, whom Bobby found trustworthy, enter, given that they didn't bust her. Dean knew that Bobby had the habit of turning a blind eye now and then when he deemed it fit, but at least he still gave a damn about keeping the city safe. The same couldn't be said about other policemen, chief Zachariah came to his mind, who, for all Dean knew, rolled in bribe money like the filthy bastard he was.

  
"You still got pie, Ellen?", he asked.  
"We're out of it. You got the last one, remember?"  
He did perfectly well: The last time Dean had visited TUMCONY, he had brought Castiel a present.  
  
"What's that?", the man had asked, back in the lounge.  
"Pie", Dean answered and removed the aluminium foil to reveal sticky strips of pastry and the smell of apple and cinammon, "eat up, buddy."  
Cas cocked his head to a side and looked at the other man. "Why?", he finally asked.  
Dean leaned back against the couch with a sigh. "You know about our last conversation, uh..."  
He shuffled and scratched his cheek absentmindedly before continuing: "Dude, I can't believe that you've had anything better than this baby here."  
"I see", Castiel said, eyes slowly wandering from to the dessert up to Dean, "Thank you."  
He cleared his throat. "Yeah, whatever."

  
"I've never, in fact, eaten pie before, you know", Cas said after having fetched cutlery, silver forks and two dishes with blue flowers painted on its edges. He placed them in front of Dean.  
"I thought Crowley and Naomi get you guys anything you want?"  
Cas shrugged his shoulders and carefully lifted a slice of the cake onto his plate.  
"I'm usually not one for sweet things."  
"No booze, no good food, you should learn to enjoy your life!" Dean said with a weak laugh and popped a fork full of the pie into his mouth.  
"Is that what qualifies as a good life for you?", Cas asked with a raised eyebrow.

  
 Dean shrugged his shoulders. "There are worse things than that. Why, how do you live your life, Cas?"  
"I read", he replied, coating his fork in apples and raisins.  
"That's it? You just lock yourself up in here and read?"  
"What do you think should I do instead?"  
"I don't know, man. Go out, party, have a good time! That's what most people do."  
Castiel wrinkled his nose. "My room is opposite to Gabriel's. I don't need to have gone to a party to know that I dislike them."  
"Is he that bad?"  
Cas shot him a pained look. "You can't even imagine."

  
Dean broke into a grin. "No, I get you. My little brother is a pain in the ass, too. Well, it got better after he moved out. That is, after I moved out of his house. He's still an annoying brat though. I see him every other week."    
"Is that how you spend your time? With your brother?"  
"I guess. He doesn't have much time though. Sammy's a lawyer", Dean said, voice swelling with pride.  
Castiel looked at him fondly.  
"We go to the Harvelles' rather often. It's a small diner, we've known their owners forever. The pie's from them."  
"It's quite a good one."  
"Quite good", Dean scoffed, "you have no idea, Cas." He looked at him fondly.  
"We should go there one time. Get a burger, maybe a drink or two."  
"Isn't that illegal, officer?"  
"Well, I'll have to take the risk", he said with a smirk and pushed the piece of pie in his mouth.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The speakeasy was as full as ever, Dean noticed, leaving his memories of pie and Cas behind. He slowly sipped on his drink, eyes wandering through the room. Maybe he would leave with a girl and get to have some fun- and by the looks Dean got, it seemed that he was getting lucky tonight. He shot the brunette at the other end of the counter a grin, when he noticed a familiar figure behind her. It was a man in his late fourties, clad in a sharp suit, beard trimmed tastefully. Dean could see the devious glint in his eyes even through the thick smoke of the man's cigar.

  
He tried to focus on the girl instead, taking in the startling blue of her eyes, but the dull feeling of familiarity was nagging at the back of his mind. The man traced the sides of his glass idly, fingers tapping against it occationally and Dean suddenly recalled seeing him with Anna and Castiel the first time he visited TUMCONY. He turned to Ellen, who was wiping down the counter quickly and jerked his thumb in the man's direction.  
"Do you know him?"  
Ellen raised her eyebrows. "Why? You've got business with Crowley?"  
The name seared through his mind like a hot knife, Crowley, he thought, Anna had told him about a Mister Crowley.  
"He just seems familiar, s'all."  
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Just stay away from him, boy, it's for your own good."  
"Oh, don't worry, I'm all bark, not bite."  
Dean jolted at the voice and turned to his right, where the man was sitting calmly now, as if he hadn't snuck up on Dean like that. Crowley smiled slyly at Dean and pushed the glass in Ellen's direction.  
"Fill it up, dear. How's the business going?"  
She laughed. "You ought to know that better than me." She reached underneath the counter and pulled out a bottle Dean had never seen before, amber liquid sloshing in it. Ellen poured it into his glass, didn't even bother dropping in ice cubes or mixing it with anything.

  
"I hope this lives up to your standards", she said.  
"I'm sure it will." His voice was low and smooth, Dean recognized it as the voice of the show, a slight accent in his lilt- Scottish maybe.  
Crowley's gaze wandered to Dean's face. "Have we met before?"  
"Yeah, no. Not directly- I think I've seen you in a theater, it has a great vaudeville show. It's on Wayward Stree-"  
"Considering that I run it, I think I'm well-acquainted with TUMCONY, yes."

So it was the Crowley Anna had told him about. Dean cleared his throat, suddenly terribly self conscious of himself. The man was watching him carefully now, eyes alert and sharp.    
"Dean Winchester.", Dean introduced himself, "It's an honor meeting you, sir."  
"Please, drop the 'sir', Crowley is more than enough. Great show, you said?"  
"Absolutely! These acts are amazing!"  
"Of course- our goal is so that our patrons may lose themselves in the experience. Anything lesser than perfect would be an insult to you." He smiled. "Say, a young man like you wouldn't be interested in joining? We could use someone as energetic as you."  
"Nah, I'm fine with things as they are. Besides, I don't think I have the suitable skills to participate anyway", Dean laughed.

  
Crowley took a long drag of his cigar, tapped it on the full ashtray. Dean's eyes watered from the stench and he struggled to keep his cough down. The man watched him with a hint of amusement and exhaled slowly, thick cloud slowly rising up from his mouth.  
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. Just keep my offer in mind, our doors are always open for people of your kind."  
The way Crowley put it sounded weird to Dean, but he shrugged the feeling off, blaming the alcohol.  
"Thanks. But I think you'll just see me around as a normal visitor."

  
Crowley leaned back, hand fumbling in his jacket pocket before he pulled out a thin slip of paper. He placed it calmly in front of him and pushed it with two fingers across the table in Dean's direction.  
"See this as a gift, Mr. Winchester. I would be delighted to see you tomorrow again."  
Dean reached for the yellow paper and turned it around, the texture smooth like glass beneath his fingers. It was a ticket to tomorrows matinee, black letters printed bold on it. He slipped it carefully into his trousers pocket.  
Crowley got up, straightening his suit. His glass was still full.

  
"Already going?", Dean asked.  
"Oh, I was just stopping by. I'm a busy man, there are many matters I need to tend to." He paused briefly, as if he considered his following sentence.  
"Do you like dogs, Mr. Winchester?"

  
A memory of his childhood popped up involuntarily, the rabid mutt he had encountered with Sam on the streets back on the countryside when he was fourteen. The way he struggled to keep the dog back, the noises it made when it nearly caught his leg with a gnash of its teeth, tearing up his trousers easily, Sammy wailing in the background for help.  
The way it knocked him to the floor, snapping violently at his face with bared fangs, hot, stinking breath in Dean's face and saliva dripping down his clothes, the feeling of bright panic searing through his veins in a way he would never quite experience again, not even in the trenches.  
If it hadn't been for the stranger, who pulled the animal off Dean and shot it, or if he had actually got hurt, he might not have survived.

  
"I'm not really a dog person, I guess", he said. Crowley shook his head and slipped on his hat, not having bothered to hand it at the cloakroom.  
"Ah, well. I suppose you wouldn't know then. Those bitches just won't stop yapping at my feet."  
There it was again, the sharp glint of his teeth and the cunning in his eyes. He was gone as soon as he had come and Dean found himself alone again.

Eventually Ellen returned to the counter and scrutinized the glass next to Dean.  
"If you ordered it, you might as well drink it", she said. Dean furrowed his brows.  
"It's not mine", he said slowly and something in her eyes hardened.  
"It's getting late, this once comes on the house. Go home, Dean."  
He did.  
   
   
   
  


	3. Chapter 3

To Dean's surprise, the next time he woke up it wasn't in the dead of night, lights still blinking through the drawn curtains, jolting violently awake, terrified by sights and scenes that he couldn’t control and a heart pounding so furiously that he was sure that the entire city would hear it.  
Instead, he slowly drifted to consciousness. Dean blinked briefly in confusion and yawned loudly.

  
He turned his head carefully to his nightstand, knowing that sudden movements would just intensify his usual headache that accompanied his awakenings. The clock on the table revealed that it was surprisingly early, 6 o' clock. After waking up he'd usually fall into a troubled slumber and oversleep.  
He furrowed his brows and then noted that the all too familiar pain behind his forehead was missing.  
Dean slowly shifted his shoulders but they just confirmed his suspicions: No soreness, no tensions.  
He just felt...good. Rested, maybe.  
Dean briefly wondered if he was dead.

  
He hardly could remember the last time he had felt that calm, not being constantly on edge.  
It almost seemed as if sleep helped him regain his strength for a change, rather than robbing it from him.  
He got up and proceeded to stretch himself, feeling his muscles tense and sighed gratefully. Bobby should give him a day off more frequently.

  
Dean noticed his plant standing on the ledge of the only window in the kitchen. He remembered Garth giving it to him as a birthday present, exclaiming confidently something about how its bright flower represented the energy of life and that it might help Dean to become less grumpy.  
The flower was nearly parched and craving for water: He had completely forgotten about it, but it wasn't like he had the time to tend plants after all. Dean was a policeman, not a botanist.   
Nonetheless he walked over and molded it meticulously.

  
Whistling he got to his kitchenette, found a pan and some eggs that Jody bought for him, turned on the stove and made an omelet. Usually his food storage would be empty because he didn‘t manage to get to the market regularly, yet sometimes Jody took pity on him and helped him with the groceries.  
By the time he was done, he poured himself a cup of coffee and Dean couldn't deny that its rich smell and the warmth that was seeping through the porcelain made him feel more comfortable than the usual booze, which only succeeded in numbing him. But this? This he could get used to.

  
The yapping of some dogs outside of the building reminded Dean of his encounter with Crowley and he remembered the ticket the man had given him, an invitation to another show in TUMCONY.  
It made Dean's heart skip with delight, overeager to see what the performers had come up with this time, excited to meet them behind the scenes and chat with them again. He grabbed his hat and coat and left in a hurry, entirely forgetting to wash his dishes, because, really, couldn't that wait?  
  
  
  


He slipped backstage after the show, finding Cas as usual in his room. He was slouched over his desk, trenchcoat hanging neatly from the back of his chair. There was a cup of coffee on his right, fresh and steaming.  
"What's that?", Dean asked and pointed at the disarray of papers on the table Cas was staring at.  
"Documents. I keep record of the stories I tell and file them."   
Dean hummed and looked over his shoulder to get a better look on the papers: Cursive letters scrawled across the lines, countless notes on the margins.  
"You wrote that?", he asked incredulously and paused. "How do you read this?"  
"Perhaps you might benefit from a pair of glasses."  
"Maybe _you_ might benefit from a pair of glasses." Dean muttered in reply.  

  
 Dean squinted at the words, one arm braced on the solid weight of the other man's shoulder.  
"What does that even mean?", he said but Cas swatted his hand away, when he reached out for the paper.    
"It's 'transformation'", he finally said and picked up a pen.  
Dean leaned forwards, feeling Castiel's hair tickle his ear, the warmth of his skin. "Bad news, buddy, that's no 'f'."  
Cas turned his head with a sigh and shot him a glare. "Dean."

  
He rolled his eyes wandered off with a grin, inspecting the rest of the room. That was just the way their meetings went: Sometimes there were more serious conversations, hours of face-to-face earnesty. But more often than not it was just...this.   
Quips and petty exchanges that made both of them smile inadvertedly.   
Dean sat down on the sofa next to the desk and watched the hunched figure that Cas was, black jacket stretched across his back.   
Tapped in his fingers on the armrest. And sometimes it was just silence and each other's company.  
On these occasions Dean often wondered whether he was being annoying or intrusive, but Castiel never complained.

Dean stood up and went over to the bookshelf, flipping through the tomes and novellas. He quickly concluded that he had never heard of the majority of the titles and that Cas' taste in literature was kind of odd, namely that he didn't have one: Dean found that there wasn't only fiction but also informational books about all sorts of topics.   
Chemistry and Physics, with complicated graphs and pictures clipped in carefully, geography, musical theory, history.   
Dean wondered if Cas really read and memorized all these books, when something caught his interest in particular. It was a thin booklet with bended corners and creased pages, evidently well-read, thin drawings printed above the text. Somebody had taken the time to underline certain words, as if they were studying it carefully.   
Dean traced the edges of the tourist guide with a puzzled expression. It seemed ridiculous to even own one for New York, considering that Cas was living right in the city with so much time on his hands, enough to explore and wander around and...

  
"Cas", he said slowly, "you wanna go out?"  
"No, I'm fine here. I think the lounge is occupied anyway." He took a sip of coffee and placed the cup back on the table.  
"I mean outside of the building." Castiel's back stiffened and Dean walked up to him, placing the booklet on the paper sheets. His eyes widened.  
"Where did you-"  
"It's not exactly hidden. I know you don't go out much, with you guys being served everything on a silver platter but just when was the last time you got some fresh air?"  
Castiel stared at him blankly. "We do have windows."

  
"No, jackass, I mean the last time you set a foot outside of this building." The man shrugged his shoulders, carefully averting Dean's gaze by looking at his desk.  
"Oh, come on, that's ridiculous. You don't even remember?"  
"Of course I do", Castiel replied defiantly. He paused, then added hesistantly: "I just don't remember it that well."  
"But you want to go out, right?" Cas' gaze flickered again from the papers to Dean, eyebrows knitted thoughtfully.  
"I don't think that would be such a good idea", he then said carefully.  
"Don't worry, you can be boring later, colorcoding your stuff can wait- it's not going to run away." Castiel shook his head, biting his lip nervously.  
"You don't understand, Dean. I'm not allowed to leave the building."

  
"Says who?", Dean scoffed.  
"It was a condition in the contract. We are not to leave the building", he repeated mechanically, arms sinking to his lap.  
"What the hell? This isn't jail, they can't just tell you not to go out. That's fucking bullshit, I'm- my brother's a lawyer you know, maybe he can do something about it-"  
"There's no need for that. Rules are rules."  
"And what happens if you break them?"  
"I don't know." He shuffled the papers, dividing them into two piles.  
"The only thing that I'm certain of, is that disobedience will be severely punished." Cas looked up, hands pausing for a moment. "Some of us have tried it once. Lucifer, Gabriel... They all got caught and..." He pressed his lips to a thin line, gaze flickering uneasily. "They changed after their punishment. To this day I still don't know what happened, only that they never attempted to leave again."

  
"So instead you're just sitting here, looking at pretty pictures and circling words?" Dean felt anger bubbling up, bitterness on his tongue.  
"I don't have any choice", Castiel snapped, "It isn't that simple, you don't consider all the ramifications-"  
"Just answer my damn question", Dean boomed, "what do you want, Cas? If you had the choice, would you go out?"  
For a second, they were silent.

  
"Yes", Cas said gravely and Dean nodded.  
"That's all I needed to know." He looked at his watch. "We have a couple of hours until the next show and the others know that you hole up in here all day long like some sort of hermit. Stick a note on the door that says you don't want to be bothered and let's get out of here."  
"Dean.."  
"We'll be back in time for the next show and nobody will ever know about it."  
"If we get caught, not only I will have to face the consequences but you, too."  
"Nothing will happen. Trust me."

  
Castiel looked at him, face unreadable.  
"Why are you putting yourself in this position just to help me go out for a few hours?"  
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "If not me, who then?"  
He slapped Castiel's back. "Come on, buddy, let's get going."  
  
  
  
  
Sneaking out wasn't hard. They had found an old hat in the back of Cas' closet and swapped his trench to something more inconspicuous.   
Castiel was fidgeting all the way down, gaze flickering nervously about and in all the noise downstairs nobody seemed to notice them slipping out through the backdoor.   
When Cas crossed the threshhold, something passed across his face, a shadow of something, and he turned around briefly to the closed door.

  
"Everything okay?", Dean asked and Cas nodded.  
"It's just an odd feeling", he said and furrowed his brows, "to leave it behind myself like this."  
"Don't worry, you'll come back soon enough. Come on, I want to show you something."  
He nudged Cas forwards, slowly guiding him to the scene in front of him: A sea of light, blinking and glittering in multicolors, illuminating the dim streets. Thick smoke and slabs of shadows everywhere.  
People winding through the streams of cars and carriages, all suits and hats and thick coats.  
However Dean found the true spectacle to be Cas' reaction, the way his shoulders tensed and how he sucked in a breath, mouth slack and opened in awe. The light was glinting softly off his face, his eyes, wide open in wonder, taking in the scene with the fascination of a child.  
The city always made Dean feel small, a tiny cog in a machine, sometimes smothering him with the feeling of helplessness. But in that very moment, when he stood next to Cas, it felt like infinity. Like a thousands stars in the endless nightsky.

  
For in its brilliance, every single pinprick of light, it seemed to create endless possibilities, a steady flow of hope and wonder and so, so much more. There they stood, back turned to the miracles of TUMCONY and face towards the city.  
"It's beautiful", Cas finally said, voice barely audible inbetween the traffic noise.  
Dean smiled softly.    
"Yeah", he said and turned back to the street, "I guess it is."

  
They got out of the side road and joined the crowd. Dean made sure to usher Cas through and ensured that he didn't get run over by a car.  
"You can't walk around with you nose in the sky, dude. This is where it's at!"  
 Cas blinked dazedly. "I'm sorry", he said, "it's just so different from what I've imagined."  
"What did you picture?"  
Cas shrugged his shoulders and weaved his way through a string of people. "I'm not sure. From my window everything seemed a lot smaller. I hadn't expected it to be so..." His face scrunched up briefly, as he was contemplating something difficult. "Overwhelming."  
"You'll get used to it, buddy. By the next time it will seem completely normal."

  
 Cas followed Dean across a street, moving from alley to alley. "Where are we going anyway?"  
"You choose! What would you like to see?"  
They walked past a large crane, construction workers yelling from atop glistening steel beams.  
"I'm not sure. What would you suggest?"  
"Oh, boy, where do I even start." Dean looked over his shoulder at Castiel and grinned. "How about a speakeasy for starters? Gotta loosen you up a bit."  
Castiel nodded dazedly, head swiveling around at the sound of a neighing horse. And Dean pulled him along, shoes clicking on uneven pavement, one hand on the small of his back and started explaining.

  
He pointed at the bright lights to his right and said, if you want to have a great time, this here is the place to go to- trust me on that, it's a real sleeper. He gestured to the small stall around the corner, a young man with a thick mustache handing out steaming pretzels and told him about the time he got food poisoning from one of these hand outs and Dean pointed up to the half constructed building ahead of them, towering above the others and casting thick shadows, thin lines protruding from its top like a half finished picture, "probably from Sands Constructing, they've been getting all the big commissions lately".

  
And he tugged at Castiel's sleeve, "stop standing around like that, you've got to move and go with the flow" and Cas nodded sagely.   
They saw newsies praising the evening edition of their respective newspapers, young boys in ragged clothes who skittered around and yelled excitedly; they saw young women roaring with laughter in short, shimmering dresses, eyes streaked with kohl and long beads running down their flat chests; and they listened to a particularly good band at a streetcorner, the music making something beneath Castiel's skin itch.   
Jazz, Dean had said smugly, you've gotta love it.   
The sun was setting by the time they rounded up at the Roadhouse.  
  
  
  
"Who's that?", Jo asked with a grin when Dean sat Cas down in front of the bar.  
"My name is Castiel", Cas said, eyes boring two holes into Jo's skull.  
"Is there something on my face?", she asked.  
"Nah, he's always like that. Cas, that's Jo. Could you get us the usual?"  
Jo gave the other man a once over, looked at Dean. "Are you sure he can handle it? He looks like a light-weight. Where'd you even drag this one up?"  
Castiel frowned. "I don't understand. Why is my body weight relevant?"  
Jo snorted. "Alright, the usual it is."

She patted Dean's shoulder and he turned back to Cas, who was busy staring holes into anything he set his eyes upon.  
"The full experience", Dean said with a laugh, "how do you like it so far?"  
"I think I enjoy it", he hummed and peered into a bowl of peanuts.  
"You think?"  
"I do." Castiel turned back to Dean, eyes bright and unrelenting. "It's just...difficult to describe."  
Dean leaned back, corner of his lips quirking up, because, yeah, he was interested in the way Cas would word it, the great storyteller suddenly at loss of words.  
"Give it a shot."  
Castiel licked his lips, pink tongue darting out for a second and eyes burning with concentration. Chest raising, as he breathed in slowly and suddenly all the background chattering and clinking faded into oblivion.

  
"It's like the sea, Dean", he said, hands flat on the table. "Endless streams of dark water and grooves and rippling waves with swarms of fish and technicolor corals. It is smooth against your skin and it swallows you whole, from head to toe, until you're covered in nothing but sea and you breathe it. And it's as beautiful as it's wild." He paused, looking at Dean hesitantly.   
"I'm sorry, it's no good. I'm missing the..."  
"No", Dean interrupted quickly, "that was great. It was really on point."  
Castiel nodded. "It's different without the writing."

  
Jo returned with two small glasses and placed them carefully in front of them. Dean thanked her briefly before raising it with one fell swoop, clear liquid sloshing dangerously at the borders of the glass.  
"To us and getting you out!", Dean said with a grin that could blind.  
Castiel clinked his glass against Dean's and took a sip. He frowned.  
"That tastes horrible."  
"No it doesn't. Shut up and drink."

  
Castiel emptied the glass and Dean gestured to Jo to bring the next one. In the mean time he knocked back his own drink, alcohol burning its way down his throat.  
The storyteller squinted. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"  
"Maybe a little."  
"Why are you trying to get me drunk?"  
"Because I wanna see if I can get you to loosen up a bit."   
"That doesn't sound like a good idea."

  
Dean groaned, hands flying to his forehead. "That's exactly what I mean! Look- no, hold on." He leaned closer to him, hand reaching out to tug at Castiel's tie, silk smooth against his fingers, losening the knot sluggishly until it slid down to his chest.  
"Now get rid of that jacket. No- damn it, Cas, you've got to relax."  
Dean stared at the rigid lines of Castiel's shoulders, shirt buttoned up to his chin. And his hand wandered up again, brushing over his shoulders and tugging them down to a gentle slope, the heat of his body making something in Dean's throat catch.  
He leaned back, scrutinizing his work carefully. Then he leaned in to ruffle Castiel's hair, soft strands tangling between his fingers, until they were mussed expertly.  
"Better", Dean concluded with a devious smirk.  
Cas shot him a dark glare and downed his glass and Dean choked on his drink in laughter.

  
"Ruby, this doesn't..."  
Dean froze, eyes flickering to his right at the mention of the name. And he sucked in a deep breath when he saw her with his brother just a few tables away.  
"Come on, Sam!" She leaned across the table, hair falling in front of her face. "You wanted me to help, right?"  
"Not like this", he pressed out thinly. She rolled her eyes, her grin simply broadening.  
"Baby, it's no big deal. You just do what is necessary to win your trial!"  
Sam shoke his head and pushed himself away from the table. "I can't do this, Ruby, it's too dangerous. I'll just have to find another way." Dean felt something in his chest tighten in fear.  
"Dangerous?", she hissed, "Do you want to know what's dangerous? Letting that son of a bitch go without sending him to jail, where he fucking belongs. Listen, Sam..." Her voice cracked with compassion, her eyes liquid adoration.  
She reached out, one hand placed on his, her thumb gently tracing a circle on his skin.  
"You're absolutely fantastic. You're good at this. All you need is a little extra kick to get you through this, that's all." Her lips curved upwards. "That's why you need me."

  
It was all Dean needed to know, the feeling of wrongness rubbing up against his skin and his alarm sirens flashing up brightly.  
"Dean? Are you alright?", Castiel asked but he had already arosen and walked over to the couple, anger seeping out of his every pore.  
"Care to share with the class?", he asked with a mirthless smile.  
Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, since when-"  
"Great", Ruby muttered under her breath and withdrew her hand, "here we go again."  
"Oh, shut up. This is none of your goddamn business. Sam, what the hell was that about? "A little extra kick'?"  
Something in his brother's eyes flared up with hurt. "Wait, have you been eavesdropping?"  
"That ain't exactly hard, the way Ruby blares out her bad ideas like a freaking megaphone!"  
The other patrons started turning around to oggle the spectacle and Dean saw Jo whisper something to Ellen out of the corner of his eye. He turned to Ruby, who was watching him calmly, pointed at her with his index finger.  
"Whatever you intend to do with him, back the fuck off."  
"I haven't done anything wrong."  
"Really, Ruby? You wanna bet?"

  
Her lips split to reveal the sharp crescent of her teeth, but her eyes were cold and harsh now, nothing like the way she looked at his brother mere minutes ago. "You should know that you're nothing without evidence."  
She grabbed her purse and leaned into Sam, pecking a kiss on his cheek. For a moment her gaze lingered on Dean.  
"Catch you later, sweetie." She sauntered out of the room.

  
"Dean?"  
Castiel was standing right behind him, eyebrows knit together in concern. "What's going on?"  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uh", he rasped, "it's nothing, really. Cas, this is my brother Sam."  
"I've gathered that much, yes."  
"Cas?", Sam asked incredulously and looked at Dean. "As in Castiel from TUMCONY? The Cas you talk about all the time?"  
Sam stood up quickly, all shaggy hair and broad smiles. "I'm a big fan of yours- your act is truly inspiring!"  
Cas still seemed oddly confused. "Thank you", he finally said.

  
"He does that sometimes, yeah", Dean added with an exasperated grin and slapped Castiel's back, but he still looked oddly thoughtful.  
"Do you know what time it is, Sam?", he finally asked.  
"It's 9PM. Why are you asking?"  
But Castiel blanched, eyes wide and shoulders tense, as he swiveled around to Dean and- oh, fuck, oh, shit-  
"The show", Cas said, voice clipped. "My act is starting in fifteen minutes."  
And Dean gritted his teeth, it was his fault, he should have kept an eye on the time. Sam watched them with a puzzled expression, eyes flitting between them.

  
"We can still make it", Dean said.  
"Dean, it took us half an hour to get here, there's no way-"  
"Damn it, Cas, just trust me, okay? I got you into this mess and I'll get you out of it. Now let's go."  
He pushed Castiel forwards and patted Sam on his shoulder, sorry, we gotta leave now, bye Sammy, and they were down the stairs and outside of The Roadhouse.  
"We're not going to get back in time", Cas repeated, this time more emphatically, but Dean already rushed past him, one hand tugging Castiel by his sleeve with a grin.  
"Not if you're going to complain the whole time!"  
"You are crazy!", Cas said as he stumbled behind him, darting across the streets and weaving through passerbys and cars and horses, a blur of lights and shapes. "Dean Winchester, you are going to be the death of me!"

  
But Dean laughed and yanked at Cas' sleeve in response and Castiel grinned, because they jostled against every person they passed and nearly caused a car crash and he was outside in New York City, running and completely out of breath with Dean Winchester, and it was beautiful.

  
They arrived backstage at TUMCONY at 9:13 PM, cheeks rosy and hair mussed, chests heaving from the exertion and looked at each other with small smiles, when Balthazar, still clad in tux and tophat, grabbed Cas by his shoulder and turned him around.  
"Where the hell have you been?", he hissed and Dean's stomach plummeted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 


	4. Chapter 4

“I visited the city with Dean.”, Cas answered and smiled at Dean, not grasping the concept of what was going to happen.  
“Oh were you? Well, too bad that your little trip caused you to miss your show, and now Naomi is furious. She told something about giving you hell, and that that won’t happen again, and that you, Cas, are going to get into a lot of trouble” , Balthazar hissed, gesturing wildly.  
Cas’ smile faded. “I have missed my show?”, he whispered.  
“Cas, get your ass in here and hide as fast as you can before Naomi gets you”, Balthazar replied, shaking his head. Cas did as told, and together with Dean and Balthazar he hurried inside, through the corridors.

They had nearly reached his room, when a voice stopped them, calm, but angry, and prompting.  
“Where do you think you are going, Castiel?”, Naomi asked. Cas froze. He looked terrified. “Oh, shit”, Balthazar stated. All three of them slowly turned around. Naomi was standing there, glittering eyes, her face red and her lips pursed. “Balthazar, leave us alone, please. Mr. Winchester, you’d better go, too.”  
This was all it took to make Balthazar disappear, although he didn’t fail to whisper “Sorry” towards his friend before leaving.  
To Dean Naomi just looked like an angry mother, apologize and make her a cup of tea and she'll have forotten why she was angry at her little angel, but Cas was somehow terrified, he was closing his eyes slowly, his whole posture stifing up.

  
“Hold on.”, Dean said and made a step towards Naomi, much to Cas’ surprise, “this is my fault, Miss Naomi. I am sorry for the inconvenience I caused, but it was me who persuaded Cas here to join me for dinner in the city.”  
Cas was startled. He didn’t expect Dean to defend him, especially because it was not his fault at all? Cas was the one who shouldn't let himself be persuaded. He was the one who deserved punishment here.

  
But Dean continued. “It would be wrong to punish Cas, now, as he only came with me under the condition that I would bring him back here punctual to his show, because he didn’t know the way back here himself. I am sorry, Miss Naomi.”  
And there he was, Dean Winchester, defending Cas in front of Naomi, taking all the blame so that Cas wouldn’t get into trouble, and in this very moment, Cas didn’t feel the fear for Naomi and her methods, he only felt admiration for Dean, who feared nothing to defend his friends. Surely Dean wasn't a master of his words, he was a cop after all, but the mere attempt to bring Cas out of trouble made him feel warm and safe.  
And suddenly Cas knew that this, this unconditional loyalty, was the thing he had found interesting about Dean from the very start, the very first time they had met.

  
“I admire your loyality, Mr. Winchester”, said Naomi and spoke out what Cas had thought, “but this won’t change anything. Castiel is responsible for his show, and this includes punctuality, and there is simply no reason why he should fail to remind this, especially not a trip in the city. Castiel will have to face disciplinary measures, and you won’t get him out of them I am afraid.”, and with these words Naomi grasped Cas’ wrist and pulled him after her.

  
Maybe Cas already knew what was waiting for him, but the look of terror on his face desperately asked Dean to do something, asked for help, to get him out of here.  
“Mr. Winchester, if you try to do anything against it, I will call the security and I will have them guard you outside. If you however decide not to do so, you can wait here for Castiel’s return”, Naomi, who seemed to have noticed Dean was trying to follow them, was gone around a corner without another word, still pulling Cas with her.  
  


So Dean waited, maybe half an hour, maybe more, in the silent corridor, which stayed empty the whole time. Finally, he heard footsteps, and Cas was coming back.  
“Hello, Dean.”, he said and smiled when coming near him. To Dean he seemed surprisingly calm.  
“Cas! Are you ok? What did she do? If she hurt you in any way, we can bring her to court, we can…”, Dean babbled.  
“Hurt me? Why would Naomi hurt me?”, Cas narrowed his eyes, he seemed confused. Now it was Dean’s turn to be confused.  
“Well..she told me, she was going to put disciplinary measures on you. That look on your face…I thought she was going to torture you!”, he said.  
“Why should she torture me? No, Naomi simply talked to me, I suppose.”  
“You suppose? Cas, what is going on? What did she ask you, what did she tell you? What happened?”  
Cas hesitated. “I…I don’t know. I think I forgot. The only thing I do know is I won’t get out in the city again.”  
  
  
  
The next day, Dean returned to the precinct. The hall was slowly starting to fill with life, as people took over from their colleagues, weary men walking down the aisles. Dean changed quickly into his uniform and was making his way to his desk, when a familiar voice called out to him.  
“Hey, pal”, Garth said and joined him with a wave, “I’ve been looking all over the place for you.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow, still walking. “I’ve a day shift today, forgot? It’s just started _now_.”

  
He arrived at his workplace and sat down, piles of files waiting for him already. Dean groaned quietly, they never got less, did they.  
Garth placed an arm carefully on one of the mountains and leaned nonchalantly in Dean’s direction.  
“So”, he started and chuckled nervously, the other hand buried in his trousers, “what’s up, Deano?”  
“I’m good”, Dean replied slowly and turned to the papers he began sifting. Most of them were minor offenses this time, drinking booze, flipping off an officer, that sort of thing. A case of arson leaped out (the overwhelming scent of smoke, assaulting nostrils and eyes, his brother tucked to his chest, the cry of his mother) and Dean tucked it back underneath the folders.

  
He noticed that Garth was still standing there and had nicked a toffee candy out of his jar- a small container with an assortment of bonbons he kept on his desk. Dean liked to keep his mouth busy and his hunger at bay during the long hours at work, so the occasional caramel or peppermint candy came in handy.  
Also, telling chicks he had something sweet to offer and then handing them a chocolate with a wink was a surprisingly effective pick-up line.

  
The man was watching him carelessly and tapping an idle rhythm on the files. Dean sighed.  
He liked Garth, really, he did, but God could he be a pain in the ass sometimes.    
“Alright, buddy, why are you hovering like that?”, he asked.  
“Me? Nah, I’m just..” Garth trailed off and looked aside, finger wandering up to scratch his nose, “you know.”  
“Beating around the bush? Yeah, I got that.”  
“Oh, it’s nothing, you know…”, he said and Dean narrowed his eyes at his hesitation, pushing back uneasiness and concern.  
Garth shrugged his shoulders, pulling himself together. “Bobby wants to see you, that’s all. Probably nothing to worry about, though he did seem kind of pissed off, you know, face all red and scrunched up.” That didn’t particularly help Dean, for all he knew, Bobby’s face was always red and scrunched up.

  
“What exactly did he say?”, Dean finally asked and put his pen aside, giving his colleague his full attention.  
“To send your goddamn ass straight up to his office as soon as you’re here, or so help him God? Also something about tearing you a new one, I think”, Garth answered tentatively. He waved his hand flippantly, as if he could fan away the gravity of the sentence.  
Bobby may live in a perpetual state of sullenness, Dean thought, but that sounded like he was pissed off, alright. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, Garth just smiled in sympathy.

  
“You know what he wants from me?”  
“Nah, I’ve no clue. But if I were you, I’d hurry”, Garth replied. He popped the candy unceremoniously into his mouth, only to wrinkle his nose. “Ew, how old are those, it’s like chewing on a brick. I think I chipped my tooth, wanna see?”

  
Dean rolled his eyes and got up, his good mood already replaced by a jitteriness, like drinking one, maybe ten cups of coffee too many.  
The gazes of all his colleagues seemed to follow him as he slowly made his way to Bobby’s office, painfully aware of every movement. Dean could swear that his sense of hearing must have suddenly improved as he heard a lead of a pencil break, Garth crinkling the paper of the candy and maybe, if he didn’t delude himself, even his own heart beating. A bit faster than normal, but nothing to worry about.

  
Or was this not because of sharpened senses but because of it suddenly being very quite inside the room? He scanned the room but his fellow detectives seemed to be absorbed by their work, eagerly minding their own business. Dean cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.  
Calm the fuck down, he told himself, as he turned around the corner, Bobby may be your superior but he is also your friend. Maybe he is worrying just for nothing, he thought, when he stopped in front of the door to Bobby’s office, knocking briefly against the glass.

  
“Come in already, I ain’t got time the whole day, son.”  
Dean entered and found Bobby sitting at his desk, both hands on his table and looking vaguely annoyed. He had obviously expected him.  
“Uh”, said Dean and pointed briefly to the open door, “Garth told me you-“  
“Shut the damn door. Now.”

  
Seeing Bobby angry was truly a spectacle in itself- his face really was turning redder than usual, Dean noted, and there was a large, bulging vein on his neck, pulsing quickly. There were deep furrows on his forehead, eyebrows knitted together and cast downwards.

  
Right as the door clicked shut, Bobby proceeded talking in that same tone of voice that was slowly starting to worry Dean and looked directly into his eyes.  
“Do you think this is some kind of game?  You know that could cost you your job, Dean, right? As much as I like you, it doesn’t mean you can get to play by your own rules.”    
“Mind filling me in? What the hell are you even talking about there, Bobby?”  
Bobby’s eyes widened in disbelief upon hearing his comment. “What I’m talking about? Are you serious? Well, for starters, how about missing an entire day of work without telling anyone jack shit? Or maybe skipping the annual inspection day like that?”  
Dean furrowed his brows. “But you told me it was on the-“  
“5th? Yeah, that was yesterday, idjit. You heard of a thing called calendar?”  
Dean felt his blood rushing to his face, the bottom of his stomach falling away.  He had completely forgotten about it.

  
“You know exactly how damn important it is. I’ve been going on about it for months already and have tasked you to supervise your department.”  
“Damn it, Bobby, I know that. But you personally gave me the day off! Don’t tell me you don’t remember that- you ain’t that old, man.” Dean laughed half-heartedly, but Bobby narrowed his eyes at that, lips pressed to a thin line.  
He walked up to Dean and leaned forwards, whispering: “Did you drink again?”    
“What?”, Dean asked incredulously, hurt creeping into his voice “No!”

  
“You can’t just walk around shitfaced, especially not when you’re working. As a cop, nonetheless. You could get suspended, hell, arrested for that.” The anger in his face subsided; replaced by something Dean couldn’t quite place. “Goddamn, I thought you had this under control.”  
“Bobby, I’m dry, calm down already. The only thing I’ve had today was coffee.”  
He raised an eyebrow. “The Irish kind?”

  
Dean was beginning to feel offended, clicking his tongue against his teeth in annoyance.  
“I’m dead sober. You expect me to do a cartwheel to prove it?” (The image of Anna popped suddenly into his mind and Dean swatted it away, he could do without memories of TUMCONY at the moment).  
“No, I know that you can hold your liquor alright.”  
Bobby stepped forwards and took a sniff, causing Dean to step back immediately. He stared at his superior with an expression of disbelief and horror.  
“What are you now, a dog?”  
“I could ask you that as well, the way you reek. When was the last time you took a shower?”  
“Dude, that’s none of your business. You at least convinced now that I’m not drunk?”  
Bobby huffed and jabbed his index in Dean’s direction. “Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook so easily, I’ll ask Ellen about this later. And you not being drunk right now, doesn’t mean you haven’t been earlier, because I can guarantee you that I didn’t allow you to take a day off anytime soon.”  
He cleared his throat and walked back to his desk.

  
“I don’t drink on duty”, Dean replied harshly and Bobby hushed him to speak quieter or else their colleagues might get wind of it.  
“Yeah, but you drink before and after”, he finally said, “that’s what the issue is, son, you don’t have a grip on your problem anymore and quite frankly I’m starting to wonder about your future at the precinct here.”  
“Look, I get it, you’re worried. But whatever happened, whether you said it or not, I swear it isn’t linked to my drinking habits. Trust me, damn it, I’m not totally irrespon-”  
“Shut your mouth, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I gave you a bit of responsibility back then and you ran it through a shredder- you’re lucky we got away with a black eye. Dean, I hope you realize that had been a test and to say you fucked up would be an understatement. You’ve been working well and we were thinking of promoting you, y’know. But that’s a goner now, good job, Winchester.”

Bobby’s statement ran through Dean’s mind, taking him completely aback- he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around that concept. Why would anyone want to give him a bigger paycheck and his own office? It seemed like a huge mistake, there were much better than him.         
“I’ve never asked for a promotion!”, he exclaimed, the sentence leaving his lips with less force than intended, hanging confused in the air.  
Bobby huffed and shook his head. Dean watched him walk behind his desk and sit down.  
“You have so much potential, kid, and I ought to know that. But your lack of ambition drives me mad at times”, he said gruffly.  
“It won’t happen again, scout’s honor.” Bobby scoffed at Dean’s lopsided grin.  
“Damn right, it won’t. Because if it does, I definitely won’t suck up to the boss to keep you here, got it? Now get the fuck out of my office and convince me I was wrong.”

  
Dean was still puzzled when he exited the room.  
He knew he hadn’t drunk anything, his conversation with Bobby still clear and vivid in his mind. Besides, being plastered enough to hallucinate everything was not only unrealistic but would have lead inevitably to a wicked hangover the next day.  
He asked a few of the other detectives later on, who he remembered having seen when he talked with Bobby about that matter, but none of them could remember a thing.

  
So he brushed it off and tried to forget, it wasn’t a big deal after all. He fucked up on a regular basis and thinking about it just conjured Bobby’s angry and disappointed face to his mind.  
Maybe it just isn’t meant to be, he thought wryly as he settled back down behind the mountains of files, swatting away any thoughts that had to do with promotions.  
  
  
The training hall was not unlike a giant playground, specifically crafted for the performers:  
A high ceiling that curved above Dean's head to a large arc and from which different sorts of devices seemed to hang, curling ropes and trapezes and rings.  
Impossible cages that were attached horizontally to the walls, stairs spiraling up and ending nowhere, pedestals and recesses in the marble floor like mountains.  
The room was seemingly endless, every inch covered with some kind of apparatus that would help to hone the many skills of the actors. It was loud, it was bright, it was exciting- it was everything Dean had come to associate with TUMCONY.

  
Upon the next visits, Dean had the chance to talk with the other performers more often.  
He discovered that Mr. Lafitte, or Benny, as the man told Dean to call him, was not a man of many words beyond the show and that he enjoyed strong liquors and cooking in his pastime (in that respect he was quite similar to Dean).  
Dean found out that the man liked to whistle when he was flinging knives and lifting weights with a carelessness that seemed almost dangerous, and that his favorite dishes were moussaka and seafood.

  
Benny was an easy going man, with a light southern drawl to his voice, who was surprisingly hospital once you got to know him and could hold his drinks like nobody's business. He found himself liking Benny and striking up a loose friendship with him, spending sometimes hours talking.  
It was nothing like his conversations with Meg or Bela, all mock and sneer in their words, with a sexual aggressiveness at the same time that made Dean feel uncomfortable and dizzy.  
Both of them, but especially the latter, were drawn to the better things in life, cloaking themselves in shimmering fabrics and expensive jewlery that dangled on their bodies.  
But whereas Meg was filthy glory, slurring lewd remarks unabashedly wherever she slinked to, a voluptious beauty with a roaring laughter and temper, Bela was refined.  Her mind was sharp like a razor but her tongue was sharper, jabs sometimes so subtle, that Dean barely even caught them, only feeling vaguely insulted.

  
Once he had talked to her on the training ground, her body levitating two meters above the floor, spinning lazily in circles. She was lying horizontally in the air, legs stretched out and arm bent to prop her head up. Balthazar was watching her from the ground, head tilted upwards.  
"Nice view", Dean said. Balthazar raised his eyebrow and grinned wolfishly.  
"What do you take me for, Dean? I'm a professional."

  
He snapped his fingers and Bela slowly rightened and sank to the floor like a leaf caught in the autumn breeze. When her foot touched the ground, she brushed her hair nonchalantly out of her face and stroke a sarcastic pose, hips askew and arm thrown energetically above her head.  
"Are we done now?", she asked.  
"We've hardly even started yet, that was just warm up."

  
"How do you guys even do-" Dean gestured vaguely to the spot, where Bela had hovered mere minutes again, "this? The whole show, actually- how the hell does it even work."  
He marched forwards and squinted upwards and huffed in frustration upon realizing that there was nothing to be seen.  
"Don't you know that a magician never reveals his tricks?", Bela said and Balthazar nodded.  
"Very top secret. Nothing you would understand either."

  
"You fool the mind of the viewer, distract them from what the actual happenings."  
Dean startled upon hearing the gravelly voice and spun around abruptly only to find stark blue eyes taking up his entire view.  
"Jesus", Dean exclaimed and stumbled back, heart threatening to jump out of his chest.    
"Hello, Dean. Bela, Balthazar."

   
Balthazar snorted and slapped Cas on the shoulder.  
"How's your act coming, love?", he asked. "Still stuck with the ending?"  
Cas shook his head and smiled. "It's alright now, thanks for helping. I always seem to have trouble with tying up the story."

  
Cas had told Dean that he and Balthazar were good friends ever since he had started working at TUMCONY, but it was still something Dean couldn't quite wrap his head around.  
Where Castiel was stuffy and sincere, Balthazar was flamboyant and sarcastic and where the storyteller was quiet and kind of awkward with other people, the magician just swaggered about, kissing people left and right with extravagant exclamations. Thinking about both of them made something turn in Dean's stomach that he couldn't quite place.

  
"So, basically", Dean finally answered, having recovered halfway from the initial shock, good grief could Cas tiptoe, "you're all just really good at diverting attention and have some sort of elaborate machines to do the work for you?"  
Balthazar shook his head and turned to Cas and Bela, "He just doesn't get it, you see? How could he, he's not one of us."  
The sentence hit something in Dean, reminding him painfully that, yes, he was only a visitor, this wasn't where he belonged to.  
Sometimes, when he visited TUMCONY, it was easy to forget that he a life outside of it.

  
"There are no machines", Cas said curtly, "everything you see is real."  
"Oh, come on. Does this mean you can do this fancy thing with your words anytime you want? And Cas showed him, as he didn't answer him but let his response appear in the air, words forming out of nowhere, until a sentence was build. Dean noticed Cas handwriting, floating in front of him.  
  _Of course_ , it read. Dean's hand wandered up, tracing the cursive letters that were hovering mid-air, smelling distinctly like citrus and grass. He wondered, if he could reach out and rearrange them if he was fast enough.

  
"It's simply a matter of energy transferal. Conjuring the words does drain me a bit. I often need to rest extensively after my performances."  
Balthazar swatted Dean's hand away from the words, letters slowly fading out of existence.

  
And Dean lowered his arm, but was stopped as he felt the presence of solid wood, cool underneath his skin, grooves and bumps beneath his finger tips. He furrowed his brows and noticed some sort of wooden wall in front of him.  
Dean looked up and saw a familiar liquor shelf. He moved his hand and felt the back of it hit a startlingly cold surface, smooth and wet, cold droplets running down his hand. The noise of chattering patrons found their way to his ears, smell of cigars and alcohol filling his nose.  
This was the speakeasy of the Harvelle's.

  
When did he get here? Wasn't he just in TUMCONY mere seconds ago? He was sitting on an old bar stool, peeling plastic beneath his legs and in front of him stood a half empty glass of whiskey, condensation dripping down its sides slowly.  
10 o'clock p.m. He picked it up and downed it. The drink tasted stale and bit its way down his throat. Then slowly the memories trickled back in, the whole thing happened last week and he had arrived here about an hour ago.

  
He rubbed his eyes, God, when did he start getting lost in his thoughts like that? In these particular memories on top of that?  
He had collected his fair share of them by now, of course, memories and experiences. Not limited to Cas of course.  
  
  
  
For example the Archangel brothers, Dean soon concluded, those were dicks.  
Michael rarely talked with him, but when he did he wasauthoritative and condescending, his brother all the same but the way the words rolled off his tongue too smoothly rubbed Dean the wrong way.

  
Or that peculiar incident from earlier, when Dean had attempted to enter Castiel's room. They had decided that in his room, the risk of other people entering abruptly would be minimized and Dean appreciated the privacy it gave them. To talk. Of course.

  
They didn't eat food together anytime soon again.  
It was actually less of a room but more of a suite, with an own bathroom, chandeliers and a bed that was so huge, it almost seemed lavish- what would one man need so many pillows for?

  
He was about to enter the room, when he heard hushed talking through the ajar door, rough voice  evidently Castiel's, accompanied by a female one, a melodic, light one. Anna, Dean concluded and stood in front of the door in hesitation.  
He licked his lips- he could enter of course and interrupt but on the other hand he didn't want to seem intrusive.  
Instead he hovered in front of the room, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible. And it wasn't his intention to overhear their conversation, hell, not that Dean particularly cared about it, but something simply stroke him as odd. 

   
Anna breathed in softly. "I don't know what to tell you, Castiel." He noticed that her voice sounded a bit husky.  
"Tell me the truth."  
Dean heard something shuffle, then she replied thinly, voice calm and brittle: "I don't know, I... I think I'm scared. I should be terrified. And I still can't do anything against it." There was a pause.  
"You think?", Castiel asked.  
"I don't know, okay", she said, words hovering empty in the air, hollow where anger or confusion should be. Instead, it just was.  
"What do you feel then?"  
She laughed humorlessly, a dry cough. "Isn't that the problem? I don't, I can't, I-"  
Anna sucked in air sharply.  
"Things that used to make me happy don't anymore, I just feel", she paused, perhaps pondering briefly, "tired, maybe. Sapped."  
"Maybe you should take some time off then..."  
"No, you don't understand- in my entire career, I've never, ever felt like this."  
Dean heard the ruffling of clothes and hair. "I never needed some time off, I was never sick, it was always okay, so why now, why..." She trailed off.  
Then, barely audible, gently: "Something is wrong with me, isn't it?"  
"No."  
"Tell me the truth, Castiel. You're my friend, please, just say it-"  
Dean heard footsteps, the rustle of fabric.  
"It's going to pass. Don't worry."  
"If it doesn't? What then?" Her voice was trembling, pulled tight like a string.

  
"I used to feel so much", she whispered, "and now it's gone, like it never was there. As if all these colors just disappeared and now everything's only black and white."  
Anna choked back a sob, half stuck in her throat.  
Dean heard noises, the moving of a chair, then a few steps. Cas seemed to have gotten up. Anna’s sniffs were muffled now, and he imagined that this meant that Cas must have hugged her.  
"I'm not sad, I'm not angry, neither disappointed nor frustrated. Tell me, Castiel, why am I crying then?"  
"You are just stressed. Go to sleep, I'll tell Crowley you won't be performing tonight. It's going to be ok."  
A long pause, only jittery breaths.  
"Thanks."

More rustling and Dean backed away from the door, just in time as Anna exited. Her face was pallid, as if she was very ill, the circles underneath her eyes dark and prominent, dress hanging too loosely on bony shoulders in a way that reminded him eerily of Sam. Her tears had washed away nearly all of her make up, dark streaks on her cheek, Dean thought she looked like a mess.  
And yet, when he caught her eye, her back straightened and she smiled, a mere fraction of its former vibrancy, tired and shaky around the corners.  
Dean wanted to say something, anything, really, but she was gone, as soon as she appeared.  
He didn't follow her down the corridor.

  
Maybe he should check on Cas, he thought, ask if he could help with anything? He wasn’t sure.  
Finally Dean opened the door. Cas was standing in front of his desk, his back towards Dean, with his hands on each ends of the wooden table, his head bowed.  
“Cas?”, Dean asked softly. The Storyteller didn’t respond.  
Dean decided to leave.  
  
  
Later, Dean told Sam about it.  
That he was starting to worry about her, her conversation with Cas.  
"She probably just stressed, Dean", his brother said, "just like you and me. It's fall, the weather sucks, nobody feels like getting out of the house to work. Especially, if you're under so much pressure"  
He shrugged his shoulders and hastily put another portion of salad into his mouth (Dean's respect for Ellen had sunk, when he heard of the menu changes).  
"I guess, people kind of want you to be an angel. Which is of course impossible. Give her time, she'll be alright."  
  
  
Castiel was still wearing the same thing he was wearing during his performance (and the last times as well, Dean noted), the rumpled trenchcoat and blue tie ever present, skin showing beneath a starched collar.  
"Don't you change your clothes?"  
The storyteller looked up from his book again and tilted his head.  
"Should I? Is there something wrong with them?"  
"No, no, I mean- it's just that I've always seen you in this stuff."  
"I can assure you, I have other clothes in my closet as well. If that made you more comfortable, I could change."

  
Dean cleared his throat, tapping on the armrest of his couch.  
"Nah, I'm good. So", he said, quickly changing the topic and gesturing to Castiel's book, "what are you reading there? Anything exciting?"  
Castiel flipped the book around, holding up the title for Dean to see.  
"The Bible? Seriously? What are you, a priest?"  
Cas raised an eyebrow. "I've been informed that it isn't necessary to be a clergyman in order to enjoy the scripture."  
Dean shrugged his shoulders in reply, unable to counter with a witty comeback. Instead he stood up, choosing to wander about in Cas' room. He stopped in front of a shelf.

  
"Is that a camera?", he asked, hands reaching out already to lift the device from the board, a small black box.  
"Yes. It was a gift from Balthazar."  
Dean ran his fingers along the thick bellows and briefly wondered how that asshole actually managed to do something nice. His friendship with Cas never failed to puzzle Dean.  
"Do you know how to use it?", he asked instead.  
Castiel nodded. "I'm quite fond of photography. It's relaxing."

  
Huh. Dean wouldn't have guessed that Cas liked handling modern devices. He had always seemed like a guy who wouldn't know how to turn on a radio to save his life.  
"Who'd you learn it from?"  
He shrugged his shoulders and walked over to Dean. "I don't remember. It was many years ago." He plucked the camera gently from his hands, fingers wrapped firmly around the bellows.  
Then he suddenly lifted it to his face, and before Dean even knew what he was doing, Cas released the shutter with an audible click.  
"Dude", he said, lifting his hands to cover his face, "not cool."  
"Did you know that people used to believe that taking a picture of you would steal your soul?"  
Dean chuckled. "Is that what you're trying to do?"  
Another click. "An image will suffice for now."  
"Alright, cut it out now."  
Castiel paused, face moving behind the camera. "I'm sorry, is it making you uncomfortable? You just happen to be quite photogenic."  
"Really? Uh", Dean stammered, ears flushing red and mouth dry, before he heard another click, that son of a bitch.

  
So he moved forwards and yanked the camera out of Castiel's hands with a jolt. The man made an undignified yelp and attempted to wrangle it back, Dean always dodging his lunges.  
Click. Click. Click.  
Castiel squinted his eyes and glared as hard as he could.  
Another click.  
"There", Dean said with a satisfied smirk and lowered the camera, "now we're even."  
Castiel yanked the camera out of his hands and huffed at Dean's laughter.  
  
  
  
"Dean? Did you hear me?" Sam reached across the table and tapped Dean on his shoulder, jolting him out of his memories.  
"Yeah! I'm good, I'm...I. Was distracted. What did you say?" He fished a fry from his dish and popped it in his mouth, the rustling and talking of other patrons in the diner slowly grounding him. His brother gave him the best impression of his patented 'bitchface', as Dean liked to call it.

  
"Basically, what I've been saying during the past five minutes", Sam said with a glare, "is that Bobby asked me to check on you. You alright?"  
Dean grunted in response, leaning back against the seat. He could have sworn to have been in that lounge next to Cas just then.  
Sam's gaze skittered nervously about and Dean noted that the dark circles under his eyes almost outmatched Anna's, the suit looking oddly ill-fitting on his body, as if he had shrunk.  
Sam reached for his glass and Dean pretended not to notice the way the water rippled from his shaking hand. It was undoubtedly the result of  all-nighters and constant focus his job required.  

  
"By the way, where did you leave little Miss Felon? That's Ruby, in case you missed it."  
Sam sighed. "She's out with friends, going to a party I think." His knee was bouncing up and down, hand tapping a restless rhythm on it. "You said you didn't want her here, so I respect that."  
Dean nodded. "Yeah."

  
He didn't tell Sam about the tugging feeling in him, how he thought Ruby's bad company wasn't guiltless about the decay of his brother's exterior, but he didn't want to start a quarrel.  
Their dinners were getting more and more sparse and Dean would rather want their shared time to be happy.  
Ruby could wait for the moment, at least until Sam's problems at his work were over and he wouldn't be so much on edge anymore. 

     
They continued their conversation, careful only to tread on lighter topics, but for Dean that was alright.  
"You not gonna eat anything?", he asked at some point in between bites of his burger, watching  Sam's dish, food still arranged neatly on it.  
His brother shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not that hungry today."  
"Great, more for me", Dean concluded and tugged the plate closer, still watching Sam warily out of the corner of his eyes.    
"Dean, do you even know how harmful this stuff is? I read an article about..."  
"Stop." Dean lifted his hand. "Don't you dare destroy food for me. The less I know the better."  
Sam chuckled at that, hair falling in front of his eyes, sticking to sweaty skin. His apparent  uneasiness seemed to take a backseat for a moment and Dean smiled as well.

  
Halfway through dinner, Sam suddenly excused himself to get some fresh air.  
"You alright, Sammy?", Dean asked with a raised eyebrow but his brother shook his head.  
"Nah, it's okay. I'm just feeling a bit warm in here."  
Dean hummed and watched his brother grab his coat and leave the diner. He hoped Sam wasn't getting sick and set up a reminder to ask him about it once he returned. He had never heard him complain about the temperature at the Harvelles'.  
Besides, in the evening the autumn wind outside was the sort of cold that went right to your bones and frankly Dean couldn't imagine why anyone would go out on their own accord.

  
He continued eating in the mean time, slowly working his way to Sam's dish and glanced at the clock above the counter. Sam had been gone for ten minutes already.  
When Dean's brother finally returned, Dean was already starting his dessert.  
"Dude", he said, voice laced with concern and disbelief, "twenty minutes? What the hell did you do out there?"  
Sam slipped back into his seat, shrugging off his jacket.  His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, his hands chafed from the wind.    
"Sorry that it took such a long time. I was just getting a breather." He smiled softly and reached for his glass of water to take a sip, hands calm and steady.  
"Don't tell me you've taken up to smoking?"  
Sam looked appalled. "God, no, Dean. Cigarettes are gross."  
Dean paused, fork poking his slice of pie. "Good", he replied roughly. That still didn't explain why he had left so abruptly.

  
"Did you seriously order yourself more food? Jesus, how much do you even eat", Sam said.  
"I know you are very concerned with your waistline, Samantha, but I don't really share your fears." Dean shoved another forkful of pastry into his mouth and made an obscene noise.  
"Ew", his brother said, scrunched up his nose and laughed, eyes sparking with life. He looked better now somehow, not as dull as before, so Dean decided not to prod and enjoy his brother's bickering.  
 

  
Most of the developed photos, that Cas ended up showing Dean, turned out blurry. Castiel smirked fondly at a picture of Dean with a deer-in-the-headlights look and a half-grin.  
"I think I like the candid pictures best", he declared, "the ability to capture a moment of the present and keep it for the future. Isn't that wonderful?"  
Dean folded a picture of Cas carefully and tucked it into his pocket, when the other man wasn't paying attention  
   
   
  
Talking with Abaddon was like being held at gunpoint in a whorehouse:  
Scared for your life to the point of being ready to wet your pants but still oddly aroused.  
It was a difficult sentiment to convey, really. She would talk sweetly in one moment but in the next it seemed more likely that she'd rip off a head with her bare hands and walk over the dead body in high heels. Dean found that incredibly disconcerting.

It didn't help that he was absolutely, positively convinced that her big cat was out to get him. He didn't like the way its eyes followed him or the fact that it nearly tore him to pieces once.  
("I nearly died, Cas!", he had shouted then, gesturing dramatically to his body, "Jesus, that thing should be put on a leash at least, it's like you guys are begging for accidents to happen!"  
"I don't think it actually touched you, Dean".  
"But it could have!"  
Balthazar told him later "suck it up, you pansy".)

   
It was another day and time in the training hall was always well spent- there was always someone to talk to or something to see. Usually there'd be only three or four people in the room, even though the space allowed for more. Cas was no where to be seen.

  
To his relief, the next time Dean saw Anna she looked slightly better.  He saw her in the center of the training room, hanging upside from the trapeze, back turned to him, thick mattresses laying beneath her.  Dean called out to her and the wires shook visibly as Anna jolted at the exclamation. Anna spun around, still hanging by her feet and facing him now headfirst.  
Her muscles relaxed and she laughed mirthlessly.  
"Dean! I didn't hear you- don't you ever scare me like that again!" Dean had rather expected a witty comeback, but waited for it in vain.  
So he chuckled and replied: "Since when are you that jumpy?"  
"I could have hurt myself, you know?", she joked and Dean noticed the thick layer of powder on her skin, the artifical blush on her cheeks.

  
"As if", he scoffed in return. He noticed her necklace dangling in front of her face, the same one he had seen the first time he went up the upper floor with the elevator.  
"Shouldn't you remove this when you practice?", he asked and pointed at it.  
"Ah, I must have forgotten!" She reached to the back of her slim neck, long fingers working on the clasp, "Could you keep it safe for me for the time being?" Dean nodded and the chain pooled into his hand, smooth and so cold that it didn't feel like it had been worn by a person recently.  
"You know, I don't want to pry but does this jewlery have any particular meaning?"  
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "Kind of, I suppose. I got it when I started here and it  somehow became  a sort of lucky charm to me. But practically, it's the key to operate the elevator."  
"Yeah, I remember- how does that even work?"  
 "Honestly, I've no idea! But all of us have some sort of device to move about freely. I'm pretty sure they're custom made, everyone has another sort of tool. Actually, I've had copies of it made recently, because I keep losing them, it's getting a bit of a hassle- this one is the original though."

  
Dean held the dainty pendant between his fingers, light glinting dull off the bird. It really could use some polishing, Dean thought absentmindedly and traced the thin scratches and dark spots. He wondered how old it was, before he slipped it into the pocket of his coat.  

  
"So when did you start out here?" Anna blew a hair strand out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She tilted her head thoughtfully.  
"Hard to tell. I never really kept track of the time, it just seemed unnecessary. It all just kind of goes round and round..."  
At that her body shot abruptly upwards, causing Dean to stumble back, as the woman proceded to spin around the trapeze demonstratively, until she came to a rest, feet pressed between the ropes, holding her in the air. She stared wistfully ahead of her, eyes flickering restlessly about and Dean thought there was something beautiful about her.  
Perhaps not in the traditional sense, not in a romantic way. But something about her, the way she talked so softly, her featherlight steps and her wispy hair that clung to her face, it made his heart clench.

       
"You know", she said quietly, "I always wanted to fly, ever since I was a kid. I mean, without aids, just-"  
She spread out her arms playfully and laughed. "Spread your wings and soar through the sky. Get away from everything."  
Dean didn't know, if he could share the flying sentiment- he felt woozy already when he looked out of the window in a high rise building. But getting away?  He smiled wryly.    
"Yeah, I know what you mean."

  
 But Anna shook her head, gaze still unwaveringly set in the distance.  
"And now that I almost can, it's different. Not what I imagined it'd be like at all. Maybe-"  
She paused and licked her lips.  
"Maybe it's time for me to return to the ground."  
  
  
"Alright, hero. You're sitting here all alone as if someone has died. What's the matter?"  
His head snapped back up, Ellen was standing in front of him, behind the counter of her speakeasy. Dean cleared his throat and blinked. The empty glasses in front of him confirmed the warmth in his chest and the fog on his mind.  
"What are you talking about? Can't a good man enjoy his night, have a drink or two?"  
Ellen shot him a glare and put down the glass the was polishing.  
"Do I look like I'm fucking stupid?"  
Dean snorted and lifted his hands in defense.

  
"Yeah, alright, gotcha. I'm worried about Sammy, 's all." It wasn't a lie, per se, he was thinking about his brother as well. Dean wasn't comfortable with sharing his experiences in TUMCONY with others (save Sam, of course, he had been there after all) so he decided to keep quiet about it.  
"Have you seen him lately? Let me tell you, the way he works ain't healthy and then there's his fucking girl-"

  
"And that's why you're drinking up everything that vaguely contains alcohol?" Ellen raised a brow. "Come on, boy, there's something cooking here, am I right?"  
Yeah, Dean thought. His job has somehow managed to be an even bigger pain in the ass lately and the only thing that could ease his mind besides his drinks was the theater.

  
But then again, the recent events still haunted him, Anna's thin smile and almost more concerningly, Cas. The way he tilted his head, when Dean talked about radios and famous singers and laughed when he had encountered Abaddon's big cat in the training hall, a dark chuckle at the back of his throat that made Dean smile involuntarily.  

"Nah", Dean replied,"not really." Ellen sighed at that.  
"You've been behaving funnily lately."  
"Nothing new here, I know I'm hilarious." She whacked his arm in response.  
 "As a business woman, go ahead and throw more money at me. As your friend I must say that this 'brooding and mysterious' shtick is getting out of hand. Not that I don't appreciate you being a bit more down to earth but: What happened to the insufferable charmer that hit on all of my female patrons and made awful jokes?"  
"Still alive and kicking, dear."  
"Yeah? When was the last time you made a pass on a girl?"  
Dean actually wondered about that, it had to be a couple of months ago perhaps. He tried to remember what she looked like but all that came to his mind were blue eyes and dark hair.  
"You worried I'm getting rusty? No problem, I'm going to-"  
He spun around in an attempt to prove Ellen that he was still the same old Dean and pick up a chick, but the room was almost empty. The only female besides Ellen was Jo, who was picking up abandoned glasses and placing them on a tray, but Dean would be rather dead than caught hitting on her (he knew, after all he had tried it some years ago).

A few old drunkards were sitting in the back, uttering something under their breath and Dean felt something in his guts twist.  
"What the hell? Where is everyone?"  
"Dean", Ellen said, "it's 5 a.m."  
He squinted his eyes and stared at her.  
"What", he repeated again, "that's impossible. The last time I looked at the clock it was, what, 9 o' clock? 10? "  
"You see what I mean now?", she sighed and propped her elbows on the counter, the towel slung casually over her shoulder. "You're on the verge of getting a serious problem. I've been talking with Bobby."  
Dean rolled his eyes. Of course.  
"I'm fine", he grunted, "don't believe him, Bobby's a mean old man." Ellen snorted at that.  
"Just go steady, Dean, alright?  Quit chugging booze like water and get a grip."  
She slapped his shoulder and Dean nodded.  
"Yeah. Okay. I'll be going then." He said goodbye to the Harvelles and left the speakeasy on wobbly feet and the feeling of uneasiness.  
  
Dean had developed the habit to look at the clock out of the corner of his eyes, waiting for the end of his shift.    
There was a new major case on the mind of his co-workers, they'd gotten hints on criminal activity in a derelict factory in the outskirts of the city and further investigations seemed to confirm this. The company had gone bankrupt not too long ago and due to some sort of bureaucratical hassle it was standing empty for quite a while now instead of being sold to the next proprietor.  
Long enough for bootleggers and maybe a couple of junkies and homeless people to make themselves comfortable in there. It was hard work to keep the bootlegging industry in check, he knew that most of his higher ups were corrupt sons of bitches and would neither dare nor want to lift a finger and change something.

  
Even Bobby, whom Dean knew was a good and just man at heart, had a hard time obeying the law, not to talk about actually enforcing it.  
And still, Dean found himself  an hour before the raid, next to other policemen, checking one last time if the gun was loaded. Dean knew that Bobby was watching him warrily from afar, eyes digging into his back.

  
In a quiet moment, the man yanked Dean aside, fingers like a vise around his wrist, fabric bunched up underneath them.  
"Son", he hissed and stared into his eyes, "can I trust you on this?"  
"Sure. Nothing new here, this isn't my first-"  
 "Shut up, you know what I mean." There was something glinting in Bobby's eyes, promising anger and concern and Dean felt his muscles tense.

  
It was his second chance, Dean knew that. His opportunity to prove Bobby that nothing had changed (or had it? Dean quickly dismissed the thought) and that he was still a capable police man.

  
"Ever since our little 'misunderstanding', you seem to have become a bit too dreamy for my comfort. This one might be big, we can't allow anyone floundering about."  
"Damn it, Bobby!", Dean snapped and freed his hand.  "Just trust me , alright? I've got this, don't worry."  
"You better", he muttered and walked away.  
  
They arrived at the factory a few hours before dawn, thick smog streaking the sky and mud caking the wheels of their cars. It was a large building, taking up the space of maybe three houses, weeds twining around dusty bricks and broken windows littering the walls. There were ten known exits in the building, over fifty officers observing the outside, checking the grounds for evidence and infiltrating the building.

  
Dean entered on the east, three men trailing behind him, gun brandished and held securely to their sides.  
The inside of the building was decaying, dust and glass shards like snow on the floor, crunching beneath their boots. Broken machines that had been left behind, thick steel beams and creaking wood, the smell of smoke and sludge and all things disgusting and vile.  
But excitement coursed through Dean's veins, it made him feel alive and real, the tingling of his nose, whenever he breathed in the dusty air, his clammy hands, eyes sharp and focused. It was just what he needed.

  
The air was cold in Dean's lungs, small puffs of warm breath fogging up and he gestured the others to split up there, covering the second floor in its entirety. Garth went ahead this time, stairs jittering and groaning at his quiet steps and suddenly Dean saw the blankets: scratchy, woolen things, perforate and stained. Somebody had been here.  
Garth nodded at his discovery, his face a stern parody of his usual carefree expression.

  
They moved on, treading lightly and from time to time Dean would see a bottle, amber liquid running across the floor in a tiny puddle,  sometimes even a syringe or two, cracked and bloody.  
The biting smell of alcohol and Garth nodded to Dean and whispered "Jackpot", but Dean stayed serious, face like marble and mouth clamped tight.  
Because Dean hadn't imagined the sound he just heard, a low scrape from behind a door to his right. The padding of feet.  
Someone was there, waiting for him, Dean was sure of that, planning an ambush, perhaps, maybe in hiding.

  
"Take a look at the room on the left, I'll check this one", he said but Garth looked at him oddly.  
"You sure? I don't think that's such a good idea."  
"I know what I'm doing", Dean hissed and Garth startled at the look of his eyes, "now go."  
The man left and Dean exhaled slowly.  
Garth had been with them for an year maybe, but to him he was still a bumbling rookie. It would be better if Dean handled this by himself.

  
So he walked up to the door with a steady stride, pressed close to the wall and ready to strike. He pushed the door and it swung open with a low rasp.  
A large room, the last beams of moonlight spilling onto the floor, shadows of old tools dancing across wood.  
Old tools? Dean stepped closer and the stench of ethanol burned its way up his throat.

  
Large containers with creeping pipes, stills, he knew, and sure enough there were barrels upon barrels behind them, a large mat thrown above to conceal their shapes. A rat skittered across the floor.  
The shadows flickered and the wind howled.  
The loud clong of a bottle hitting the ground made him jerk, body moving like an oiled machine, flipping around to find another man.

  
Thick curls of hair on his face, bags beneath his eyes and was that a bathrobe? Battered and filthy clothes, stained and hanging in strips off his scrawny body. He smelled like puke and beer.  
“This is the police! Hands in the air, where I can see them!"  
"Aw, fuck", the man slurred and looked at the rolling bottle. "Of course that's gotta happen to me."  
He raised his hands slowly, fingers and gloves crusted with dirt.  
"I'm not armed, so could you, uh, move that gun out of my face? I haven't done anything wrong. Which is to say, I have, but that doesn't matter right now."

  
Dean's voice was steelen, all imperious commands and sharp barks. "Sir, we have a warrant allowing us to search this building and we have reason to suspect that you're involved. Where are your accomplices?"     
"Accomplices?",he repeated, as if he was mulling about something very fascinating, words drawn long. "I've left them behind, all of them...All gone, gone, gone..."  The man's head drooped, he laughed mirthlessly, loud and hollow and Dean felt a shiver run down his spine, something was wrong with the man. Probably a drunk, maybe a junkie.    
"Who are you talking about? Hey! I'm talking to you, buddy!" He reached out gingerly, grabbing the man's sleeve.  
"What do you want, officer? I've escaped with my life, but at what price? I can't return, it'll kill me, if I do!"  
"Where did you escape from? Listen, man, we can help you. All you have to do is spill."

  
But the man looked at him with wide, glazed eyes, forehead sweat-slick and his breath reeking of booze and cigarettes.  
"My soul", he said, "they wanted my soul."

  
But the man in front of him yelled, stumbling backwards and Dean spun around, a dark figure moving towards him. Everything snapped into focus, adrenaline pumping through his body, ringing in his ears, and Dean was back on the battlefield, swinging and kicking and slicing. Blurred movements and the sharp glint of a knife in the moonlight, a blinding slice of lethality and then he saw the face of his aggressor, all twisted snarl and savage eyes that he saw every time he looked into the mirror, same hair, same nose, same mouth.

  
The pistol lay heavy in his outstretched hands and he pulled the trigger, when something tackled him from the right, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending his arms flying up. A shot rang out, somebody yelled, sounding far away and distant, but it didn't matter, there was something, somebody trying to kill him.  
"Dean!", somebody shouted far, far away.

  
He staggered backwards but bolted towards his opponent as soon as he regained his balance, movements swift and efficient, but everything was blurring in front of his eyes, colors and shapes smudging and turning and then again, "Damn it, Dean", the voice called out, slightly closer now, but didn't he know this voice? He blinked and his surrounding regained its clarity. The drunkard was gone.

  
"What the hell are you doing?", Bobby asked, one hand fisting Dean's uniform, eyes shining with anger and...was that fear?  
Dean turned around and Garth was on the floor staring up at him with an expression of terror and clutching at his bleeding arm- but when had it started bleeding, Dean thought, when did Garth and Bobby return? And everything never stop turning.    
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby drove him back to the precinct in silence, Dean in the back of the car, watching gray buildings change rapidly through the window.   
His fingers were clutching his knees rigidly and he felt oddly light headed.   
Only the dull sound of the gunshot was still ringing in his ears and Dean felt ill.   
Upon their arrival at the precinct, the news had already spread, the two of them being the last ones to return from the raid. A  
nd when Dean followed Bobby on stiff legs into his office, his colleagues were whispering and pointedly trying to look busy. Jody shot him a look of sorrow as he walked past her.

"Sit down", Bobby told Dean and closed the door after him. Rolled down the blinds and took place behind his desk. He leaned forward.   
"What the hell is going on with you, boy? Taking days off, constantly distracted and now this?"   
"Listen, I made a mistake, okay? It happens to the best of us", Dean said between gritted teeth and tried to swallow the familiar leaden feeling of guilt.  
"A mistake? Do you even realize the gravity of this situation? You tried to shoot Garth and if the bullet actually hit him and he decided to charge you for attempted murder, or hell, if... " He breathed heavily. "Jesus, you're lucky that he escaped with no more than a fright and decided not sue you. Goddamn it, just what were you thinking?" Dean clenched his jaw.   
"I'm sorry", he eventually rasped.  
"Don't apologize to me, idjit. You should go talk with Garth instead."   
"It won't happen again, I promise."   
And Bobby sighed. "Just answer my question."

So Dean told Bobby what he had seen, his conversation with the drunkard and the hooded figure that approached him. He didn't tell him that he recognized the aggressor.   
But Bobby just listened to him sternly and finally shook his head and cursed quietly.   
"I knew I shouldn't have gotten you this damn job."  
Dean was silent.   
"War changes men. You should never have to touch again a gun in your lifetime, especially not you."   
"I'm fine."   
"You are not fine, you have never been fine, it's the Winchester legacy. We're worrying about you, Sam, Jody, the Harvelles, me."  
"Well, isn't that heartwarming. I take you have regular meetings to discuss my mental problems over a cup of tea?"  
"Don't you sass me, boy. "  
"Jesus, Bobby, just quit it already. Punish me and let me get back to work." Bobby paused hesitantly in a way that worried Dean.

  
"I've been thinking already for a while about that. Maybe you should take a break."   
Dean laughed bitterly. "You're kidding me."  
"Do I look like I am joking?"   
He didn't, Dean noted, forehead creased in deep folds and eyes fixing him sternly.   
"Give me your shield and your gun,"he finally said.  
"Bobby, come on..."  
"I can't risk it anymore, son. I must be able to rely on you and with your state of mind this ain't exactly possible. What if you actually hurt somebody the next time?"

  
The underlying "what if you kill" stayed unspoken and Dean gulped.

Bobby shook his head and muttered "idjit" under his breath, as he accepted the objects Dean placed reluctantly in front of him.   
"Don't get me wrong, you're a good cop. Your heart is on the right spot."   
Then Bobby lead Dean to the door and patted his shoulder in a weak attempt to comfort. "It's only temporarily. A couple of weeks, a month at best. As soon as you feel better, you're back." Dean smiled dejectedly.   
And there was this feeling of unbelief again, washing over Dean like a wave and numbing his senses.  
  
He could neither recall changing his uniform into normal clothes nor tumbling out of the precinct, the eyes of his colleagues boring hotly into him, nor sliding into his car, still on the staff parking lot. He would have to get out of there soon.

  
There he sat with shaking hands and the realization what just happened hit him like a fist in the face.  
He heard a dull 'tap' of a raindrop on the car roof, apparently he had made it just in time for a storm.  
Dean ran his hands through his hair and cursed violently. Punched the dashboard and hissed in anger, like a boiling kettle.  
Then he propped his head on the steering wheel, the wood cooling his forehead. Rubbed his eyes.  
Tap.  
What is wrong with you, Winchester, he thought, and why can't you do anything right?  
And the picture of his father came to his mind, clothed in his crisp uniform, hair neatly combed back.  
Badges and medals were adorning his chest.  
(Chagrin.)  
Tap.  
Long, blond curls of his mother. Bright green eyes and a kind smile.  
(Disgrace.)  
Tap.  
He saw his brother in a fitted suit and shaking hands with his clients.  
(Failure.)  
Tap tap tap.  
Dean breathed in sharply and looked up.  
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap, like the ticking of a clock, regular and reverberating darkly in his car. Shouldn't it be louder here, in the middle of the city, in front of a police station? Dean licked his lips, feeling uneasiness curl low in his stomach.  
The hood of his car and the parking lot were dry.

  
He narrowed his eyes and bent forwards, hand held out to trace the smooth windshield.  
"What the hell..."  
A thin red line trickled down the glass.    
Then a loud slosh, like a bucket full of water, and the metallic stench of blood and decay assaulting Dean's nose, making him retch and clutch his stomach in panic, bright and flaring to life. It was on his tongue, beneath his skin, eyes watering and the hair at his nape standing upright.  
He reached for the door, eyes still fixed on the windshield, but the handle wouldn't budge beneath his hand, no matter how hard he rattled.  
The liquid was flowing now in thick streams across the glass, slicing away at his field of vision and closing in like velvet curtains all around him. He desperately tried to keep himself from breathing in the air too often, thick with stink, and his alarm at bay, thoughts running through his mind, this is wrong, this shouldn't be happening, get out of here now.   
He turned to the ignition and fumbled at the keys with shaking hands, but the sound of the motor stayed absent. The light was mostly gone.

He was now shrouded in nothing but dark red, slowly oozing beneath the glass and he turned back to the door, attempting to kick it down in vain. The liquid now found its way to the inside,  running across the dashboard and piling into rapidly growing puddles. His throat constricted in terror, arm reaching for his seat for leverage, he pounded against the door, shouted for help, the liquid was now pooling around his ankles and the sound of the drops has increased to a mechanical clatter-  
Silence.   
All the noises stopped at once, only his shuddering breaths and the thumps of his heart remained.

  
Darkness, the thick liquid having blocked the light completely, but the kind which weighted on your chest like lead and breathed at the back of your neck. The kind that made you feel like suffocating, walls of void closing in on you from all directions and reaching out tendrils to tug at your skin.

  
The dizzying sense of dread was still clutching at his mind and he blinked a few times, hoping that his eyes would get used to the lack of light. They didn't. He swallowed thickly and lifted his hand carefully, groping at his surrounding with shaking fingers. The familiar ridges of the door. Dean let out a shaky sigh in relief at feeling something familiar, and moved on.

  
He trailed the wood, cold metal, but the slippery wetness made him withdraw abruptly. He held his fingers up to his nose and his stomach turned. The last doubts about the nature of the substance were now gone. What in God's name was happening?

  
He heard a soft ripple of the blood at his feet, then swashing violently from the left to the right like a stormy day at sea, felt it splash warmly on his shirt and skin. Then a thin noise, growing louder and louder and multiplying, overlaying the violent gurgles of the now bubbling liquid and Dean wanted to yell along to the screams he started hearing, all despair and fear. Not at all because of the hundrends of cries, the indiscernable screams, though, it was their familiarity that tipped him off. He shut his eyes, felt on the verge of passing out.

  
When he opened them again the blood was gone. Completely wiped away. He looked at his legs, clean and dry, set them down on the untainted floor. He was still on the parking lot. He immediately turned around to the door and it opened smoothly as always. Dean stumbled out of his car, dry heaving and gasping for air. Connected hands and knees to the ground, barely holding up his bodyweight.

  
He sat down on the floor, rubbing at his face and tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for whatever he had experienced there. For a minute he thought about calling Sam, tell him about all this. But he knew how he was going to react, with that concerned look of his, Dean, maybe you should go to a doctor.  
He looked at his car from over his shoulder, observed her pristine condition and decided to leave her for the time being on the parking lot.  


Public transportation wasn't much to his liking, but it did its job and Dean soon found himself back at the theater, in hopes to ease his mind.  
When Castiel saw his distraught eyes, something in his features hardened and he sat him down on the sofa. Dean told him what had happened and Cas listened attentively.

  
"Was this the first time this happened to you?", he asked quietly.  
"Yes", Dean said. Castiel squinted his eyes, as if he was suspecting that his friend was lying but thankfully he was silent.  
"I'm not sure what caused this but it sounds like some sort of...hallucination to me."  
Dean raised his brows and smiled wryly. "Am I going loony or what?"  
"Perhaps. My condolences."  
"That's not very helpful."

  
Castiel sighed. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know what could have caused it. Over the years many causes have been attributed to delusions. Back in the days, it was said the devil caused them, demons corrupting your soul. Some said these images were the way they played with your mind, others said it was a sort of defense mechanism. A way to alert your conciousness, that something was deeply wrong with you."

  
"You wanna exorcize me then?", Dean scoffed and dropped his head against the cushion. He was still feeling terribly on edge and thought absent-mindedly that a drink would help.  
"Of course not. Modern science offers other possible reasons. Mental illnesses, various drugs and poisons like alcohol, and stressful events. The possibilities are endless."  
Stress, Dean thought, he could go with that. His life has never been a piece of cake and he doubted it would be anytime soon, but the raid, losing his job. It added up.

  
"So you think it could be a kind of subconscious thing?"  
Castiel shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Why, are any aspects of your experience recurring?"  
"You mean the blood and the screams? I guess." Dean scuffed the carpet with his shoes and tried to ignore the way Castiel's gaze pierced him from his side. His mouth felt oddly dry.

  
"I have these, uh, dreams sometimes. Don't you?" He looked up briefly and smiled half heartedly but Cas was watching him, eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
"How often have you been having these dreams?"  
Dean laughed, bitterness slipping through his lips. "You mean how often I haven't been having them?"  
"But why?" Castiel frowned. "Why would someone like you..."  
"Someone like me would bask in them. Make pictures and hang them up on the wall."

  
Cas shook his head. "You are a good person. I just don't understand, how you can be filled with such unrest and your dreams with violence."  
The whole situation suddenly stroke Dean as incredibly odd. He had known Cas for weeks, a month or two at best. It made him feel foolish for even thinking that he would understand him- how could he, when they knew next to nothing about each other? How could Cas even begin to understand what he'd been through and how could he look into his eyes, if he knew what he'd done.  
"Forget it", he grunted.  
"Tell me."  
"Tell you what, Cas? That I'm a fucking murderer?"

  
It had to crumble down, like all things did. He sounded a strangled laugh.  
"I was in the Great War. Sat in the trenches and the things I've seen... Not sure how the rest of you are coping, but, damn, do I try."  
Castiel was looking at him with an expression of such compassion, mouth lax and eyes soft. Dean hated it. "And the screams..."  
"Nothing new, buddy. I've heard them years ago already." He shook his head and his eyes were stinging.

   
"You wouldn't understand this. All these people, I- I couldn't help them and..." He gritted his teeth. He had thought that becoming a police man, following his father's footsteps would be the right thing to do. Protect the lives he would have taken and save what he couldn't.  
"I'm sorry."  
Dean licked his lips. "Yeah. Me, too."

  
And suddenly it seemed so clear, because in the end, he was still nothing but selfish. He didn't want to help, he only wanted absolution, that he was now sure of. Every single step he took was his way of begging for forgiveness, like a kicked dog looking up to his master, and yet it was for nothing.

   
"But whatever you did, it wasn't your fault", Castiel said slowly, "It was self-defense."  
"No, it wasn't." He looked down at his hands, couldn't bear staring at his friend and felt everything, all the turbulent emotions and thoughts bubbling up again. "I fucking murdered them, because I liked it, alright?", he spat.

Images flashed up briefly, distorted faces of people he had hardly known, the rush of happiness, he had felt when they sank to his feet, at receiving one more minute of life.    
He reached at his forehead, fingers threading through strands of hair, Castiel had been the first person, whom he had told that.    
"How does this make you feel, Cas? To sit like this next to a psychopath?" He didn't reply and Dean felt his stomach sinking in terror at what he had done.

     
"And honestly? If I were back there, back in these shit holes with all that vermin and that- that stench." He sucked in a breath, hands clammy. "I would have done the same thing again."  
"Dean..."  
He didn't need to look into his face to know what Cas would look like, the disgust in his face. Disappointed, angry maybe. Scared absolutely shitless and feeling just as repulsed of him as he did himself. Rightfully so. Dean shook his head.    
"I should leave, caused enough trouble as it is already."  
He stood up, but Castiel's hand darted forwards, catching him by his wrist. Dean stood still in confusion, hesitated, he could easily walk out of the door just like that, never return again, it would have been for the better.

  
"Why are you chastising yourself like this?", Cas asked quietly. For the first time since Dean revealed what he had done, he turned around to face Cas, muscles coiled and tense.  
"Did you even fucking listen to me?! I don't deserve to be alive, man! I don't deserve anything or anybody! Not my brother, not..."  
The unspoken not you lingered in the air, not the way Castiel was looking at him with eyes full of bewilderment and hurt that made Dean's heart flutter and his throat close up.  
"You should stop making judgements on behalf of other people", Cas replied, eyes sparking with something fierce.

  
Cas stood up, body upright and closed the distance between them, eyes boring into him.  
"Dean Winchester, you are a righteous man. And don't you dare think that anything you've ever done could change my opinion of you. In my eyes, you are worthy."  
The sentence rang out and something in Dean faltered, simply shut down. He blinked dazedly and closed his mouth. So they stood there in silence, Castiel's fingers circling his wrist warmly and something in Dean's chest clenched, made him draw a breath sharply.  
"Yeah", Dean rasped finally, "alright."

  
They sat back down on the sofa in silence and Castiel's hand stayed on his arm and for some reason, it made him feel better. The images stopped flashing before his eyes and in the quiet of the room with the heat of Cas' body next to him, Dean fell in love with him.  
  
When he left the room, seeing as the next show was going to start soon, he encountered Gabriel and Meg engrossed in a conversation.  
"Well, hello, who have we got here? Dean-o! So good to see you!", Gabriel exclaimed upon noticing him. Dean's grin slipped on smoother than he would have expected it to.  
"Going to keep us company?", Meg said with a smirk.  
"Why, am I interrupting?"  
"Not really, we were just about to leave for the dressing room. Care for a candy bar?"  
Gabriel held a bar of chocolate in Dean's direction, wrapped in golden foil and colorful pictures.  
He declined. The last time he accepted food from Gabriel, it turned out that the alleged cherry bonbon actually contained large amounts of Tabasco sauce, much to Dean's horror. Gabriel shrugged and took a large bite of it, after having removed the wrapping. They started walking over to the elevator.

  
"You know", he said between mouthfuls of his candy, "I like my women like my chocolate. Dark, hot and bitter with a hint of sweetness."  
He waggled his eyebrows.  
"Don't you both have to prepare for your performance or something?", Dean asked exasperatedly.  
"Are you trying to insult me? I am an artist, I draw my inspiration from the situation and the audience", Meg said flippantly.  
"You wanna see what I can come up with right now, when I have you in front of my eyes?" She looked at him from under thick eyelashes, her gaze lingering hungrily on his body. Dean cleared his throat.  
"You've never offered me this, Meg! I demand amends!", Gabriel said.  
"That's because you're a dick", she replied.  
"A very handsome dick," he shot back with a grin.  
"Spoken like a true comedian!"

  
Dean relaxed slowly, worries eventually taking a back seat as he watched the banter. They entered the elevator and the door shut with a shrill noise.  
Meg yawned. "Anyway", she began, "you were saying about Abaddon?"  
"Yes! Have you seen her throwing a fit today, because some poor dunce didn't get her the right drink? She nearly tore his head off. Makes you wonder who is the beauty and who is the beast in her act!"  
"That must have been hilarious, I wish I'd been there to see his face. She's such a diva sometimes."  
"Most of the time", Gabriel interjected.

  
"Almost as bad as the magicians, God, I hate these pricks. They think they're the cleverest of all, with their posh British accents and magic tricks, as if they're better than the rest. Even though it's all smoke and mirrors and in most cases literally."  
"But isn't that how all of the tricks in the show work?", Dean said.  
"Oh, honey", Meg said to him, "at least you have your looks."

  
"So, what," he laughed, "are you mojo'ing your way through your acts?"  
"Trade secret", Gabriel whispered and winked. "It varies from performer to performer, everyone is doing it slightly differently. And what is real anyway?"  
Dean stared at him. Then he touched the wall. "I can put my hand on this. Look, it's even solid." He knocked on it and Gabriel rolled his eyes.  
"Yeah, dumbo, of course you can touch it. But try to listen for a change. I'm asking whether it is real."  
Dean looked at the wall and then back to Gabriel.

  
"What the hell are you talking about, man?"  
"Alright, look, kiddo. I'm going to help you out, just this once. The wall is purple, right?"  
"Yeah, so?"  
"What if my purple is different from yours, even if we both call it by the same name? Nobody can guarantee that I see things the same way you do." He tapped his nose slyly, as they arrived on the lower floor, aisles bustling with life.  
"That's the way the cookie crumbles, Dean-o."  
"Makes sense?", Meg asked.  
No, Dean thought, this didn't make a lick of sense.

  
They said good bye and made their way to their respective dressing rooms, leaving Dean behind, who started hurrying towards the hall.  
  
  
  
  
  
And when he entered it and found his seat, though a little belatedly, he saw Anna already standing there, down in the middle of the stage.  
It was odd, because in all the months, Dean had never seen her standing visibly on the ground right at the beginning of her act.  
And maybe this was the moment, when he should have noticed that something was wrong.

  
Her hair was hanging down in limpid strings, her lips were chapped but at least her smile was still stuck unwaveringly in its place, almost artificially so.  
She threw her arms up and wrapped them around the trapeze that had been let down to her eye level, climbed up quickly and contorted her limbs to a new shape.  

  
But there was this imperceptible tremble in her hands, the way she was gripping the ropes slightly harder than before and the way her biceps were tensed in absolute concentration.  
It was nothing a normal viewer would notice but after countless visits he knew the acts well enough, even if they were different every single time.

  
Every single performer had their own style that carried from show to show, be it Cas' calm and profound language or Benny's nonchalant demeanor.  
A lack of precision didn't belong to Anna's usual performance. She dangled from one hand above the ground, sweeping across the ground as large feathers erupted from her back with loud sparks, unfolding with mechanical precision, giant wings of green and purple, golden tips and intricated patterns that only appeared when the light shone directly on them.

  
She pulled herself upright, feathers obscuring her body briefly, before they parted once more and revealed a short sequinned dress, thousand shades of purple. The wings flapped once more, aligned to her back, Dean swore they had been bigger just then.

  
Bouncing, twisting and turning, the red haired artist seemed like a flying bird, almost surreal so, free to dart happily around her huge, round stage, which she definitely owned at the moment.  
The music grew louder and louder, as she started to swing on the trapeze, forwards, backwards, forwards, leaning stronger into the momentum with each movement. Her eyes were fixed on the high wire above her.  
The trapeze moved stronger and stronger and then she jumped off, somersaulting in the air and stretching her hands out to grasp the wire. And for a moment she seemed eternal.

  
Dress and feathers fluttering in the wind and hair trailing behind her. Spotlight glinting sharply off the spread wings. One knee drawn close to her body. Her back a consummate curve.  
A perfect, absolute still. Dean's chest constricted in horror.  
Her fingers barely brushed the rope.  
She crashed to the floor head first, ribs cracking loudly upon the impact.  
Her limbs bounced up briefly, then settled on the ground.

  
The music stopped playing and for a moment nothing happened.  
Then somebody started screaming and Dean got up, leaping towards Anna across the seats, yelled "Get out of the way", shoving panicking spectators aside, heart beating hard against his chest.  
And he thought, please, don't let her be dead, not her, too, nobody was dying on his watch, because this couldn't be a trick, she wouldn't have done something as cruel as this.

  
Anna might have feinted a fall, but never would she have hit the ground like that.

  
He arrived breathlessly on the stage and it took him all his willpower not to flinch.  
"We need a doctor, fast!", Dean hollered.  
Up close all the gruesome details were visible: The way her arms and legs were twisted and the blood pooled, a red halo around her head, slowly creeping away from her.  The feathers, those beautiful, giant feathers were broken, barbules damaged oddly, letting the remaining parts look like a skeleton. The scrapes and bruises on her body, dark and purple, almost as if they were weeks old.

  
She was lying on her stomach, purple dress riding up her thighs, so Dean knelt down and gripped her shoulder softly to turn her around. To his surprise she was rigid and light, like driftwood.  
Matted hair strands were clinging to her bloodied forehead. Lips parted slightly, dull hazel eyes staring upwards to the high wire.  
Dean felt light headed, his mouth dry and his throat constricted.  
He patted her cheek lightly.  
She looked like a porcelain doll, almost uncannily so.  
Fragile and cold to touch, so cold, even though her fall was merely a few minutes ago.  
"Can you hear me, Anna? Come on, get it together,"he muttered.  
She wasn't breathing and his heart sank.

  
But the crowd was murmuring, some of the spectators standing up to get a closer look on the stage but most of them were still sitting.  
"What the hell are you doing?! Somebody, anybody, get help!" Dean's voice cracked.  
He checked her pulse.  
And his hands were desperately clutching her face, getting soiled with blood again, because she couldn't be dead, God damn it.

  
Crowley entered the stage with spread arms and a broad smile. He had never appeared in person, not once in all the time that Dean has know TUMCONY.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please, calm down! There is no need to worry! Ms. Anna is in the best of health."  
He strode towards her body and prodded it roughly with polished shoes. Dean watched in absolute horror and disbelief.  
  
  
  
He felt hands touching his shoulders, as he was raised.  
"Get your fucking mitts of me", he growled but he was only grappled and guided reluctantly off the scene by the security, the last thing he saw being Crowley heaving up Anna by the straps of her dress.

  
He felt numb and was confused by Crowley's statement. How could Anna be in the best of health if she was lying there, bathed in blood?    
Dean turned his head back but was pushed forwards roughly.

  
"You son of a bitch, cut it out already! My brother is a lawyer and he will sue your asses to hell and back, if you don't let go of me right now", Dean snapped, "get me back on stage!"  
He was held by two men, who were dragging him kicking and screaming through hallways, after hallways.  
And for a moment, he believed to see the familiar shape of Ruby darting around the corner, causing his pulse to accelerate in concern.  
But she was gone in the blink of an eye and Dean was pushed towards a different corridor.  
"Where the hell are you bringing me to?"

  
He had expected that they would kick him out ass first, not brought into an office.  
Dean recognized the door, it was one of the rooms that he wasn't supposed to enter.  
It opened quietly and Dean was confronted with white walls so bright and clean, unreal so, that he felt blinded.  
The room was lean and simple, very no-nonsense. Nothing like the rich, vivid colors and many details in the rest of the building.  
It was mostly empty and windowless, with an ebony desk and a dresser in the far back of the room. There were a few simple chairs placed in front of them.

  
Behind the desk sat a woman, who appeared to be writing something down.  
She was in her thirties perhaps,  hair slicked back and tied to a neat bun.  
Her neck was slender, her eyes sharp. And whereas Crowley had an air of sleaziness, she seemed proper and professional. Almost trustworthy, even.  
"Hello", Naomi said, voice indifferent and clear.  
She put down the pen calmly and smiled.  
"Please, take a seat."  
The stagehands left and Dean followed her instructions.  
"Okay, lady", he began and placed his hands on the desk, "why am I here?"  
"I have called you here, in order to apologize."  
Dean had expected a lot of different replies but this was not one of them.  
He was taken aback.  
"What do you mean?"  
She leaned back in a large leather chair.  
"Did Mister Crowley explain to you the situation with Anna?"  
"I don't think any explanation is necessary."  
"She isn't dead."  
"That's bullshit. I checked her for life signs myself."  
"What you checked was a doll."

  
And Dean stood up, suddenly leaning into her personal space.  
"Woman", he snarled, "I know what dolls look like and let me tell you, their ribs sure as hell don't crack and they don't bleed either. I'm not stupid, so shove your fucking explanations up your ass!"  
He whipped the stack of papers on her desk with a bang to the floor.

  
"Mister Winchester, I must ask you to control your temper", she hissed and looked into his eyes.  
"Her whole death was faked. Anna is now working in another theater in another city and had to leave in a hurry. She is fine."  
Dean sank back down to his chair.  
"Dolls can't somersault."  
"And animals can't change their species. Your problem is that you are still trying to apply such rules to this establishment, when in reality it's simply not possible to rationalize our theater in this manner."  
"So, let's assume I believe you for a moment. Why should you organize this whole act? Why not just switch her out and that's it?"  
"It was an experiment to test the reaction of the spectators for future acts that rely on audience participation. It was planned for a long time already."

  
"Nobody told me about this."  
"Of course not. You are just a mere bystander after all, with a few more privileges than an average guest, mind you."  
Dean was silent, ashamed and embarrassed of his behavior.  
"But that's okay", she said gently, "the way you reacted was good and very noble. We want to apologize for causing you so much distress.  Please accept our gift."  
And she placed a small card in front of him, thick paper with a stamp and a signature on it.  
"It's a commutation ticket and will enable you to watch any future show without having to pay for it."  
Dean reached hesitantly for the piece of paper, not breaking eye contact with Naomi, and turned it in his hands.  
It was smooth and cool to touch.  
On the backside there was a long number, written with sweeping movements in blue ink.  
He raised an eyebrow.  
"What is this?"  
"It's the telephone number of Anna's current stay. She left it here, in case somebody wanted to contact her. We thought you'd appreciate it."  
She smiled at Dean.  
"Uh", he said, "thanks, I guess."

  
They shook hands and Dean left the room dazedly, wondering what exactly happened and how much of it he should believe.  
Was it really possible, he thought, that it was just a trick? He recalled the blood and he didn't know what to think anymore.  
  
  
  
  
He didn't go back to the show but went home instead, where he placed the card next to his telephone on the coffee table.  
Dean wasn't too fond of calling other people, he preferred the old fashioned way of approaching people directly and talking with them face to face.  
He looked at the card once more and finally grabbed the receiver. Dialed the number thoughtfully, double checking every single digit.  
And then he waited, clammy hand gripping the handle.

  
"Hello?"  
He closed his eyes in relief, as he heard her voice.  
"Hey, it's me, Dean", he said. What now? So, how are you, I thought you were dead and saw your not-quite corpse?

  
"Oh, it's so good to talk to you again! I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to speak before I left!"  
"It's alright", he said.  
"Say, why did you get out of here anyway?"  
"I was looking for something new, you know? A girl like me needs adventures!"  
She laughed and Dean smiled.  
"Where are you?"  
"Here and there! I'm staying with a friend at the moment, but not for long. What have you been up to?"  
"Not much, you know. Some stuff happened."  
It was quiet on the other end and he heard some background noise.  
"Anna? You still there?"  
"Uh-huh! I'm just a bit busy here. Sorry, I'm kind of in a hurry, can we speak another time? I've got your number, so..."  
"Definitely", Dean said.  
"It was great talking to you", he then added.  
"Same over here! It was nice to hear you! Anyway, talk to you later! Bye!"  
The receiver clicked on the other end and Dean put down his phone.

  
She is alive, he thought, she really is.  
And he laughed, because he realized how stupid the whole thing was.  
She wouldn't have possibly died in an accident, she was far too skillful to have let anything drastic happen.  
A doll, of course! They had enough illusionists to make something like this happen! Nothing but a trick of the light.  
It was just stupid, stupid, stupid and his heart felt a lot lighter than it did before.

  
Dean grabbed the card to put it in his pocket, when he noticed Anna's necklace in it, the bird pendant that she had given him during one of her rare practice sessions.  
He pulled it out and it was pitch black. Must have gotten dirty at some point, he thought.  
She obviously forgot about it or thought it to be lost- a shame, really.  
Anna loved this chain, seeing as the piece of jewelry seemed well worn.  
Dean decided to give her another quick call to inform her about the whereabouts of the chain and hoped that he wasn't interrupting anything important.  
He dialed the number.

  
"Hello?  
"It's me, Dean, again. Sorry to bother but I just found this neckla-"  
"Oh, it's so good to talk to you again! I'm sorry we didn't get the chance to speak before I left!"  
He paused and furrowed his brows. Licked his lips and almost laughed.  
"Anna? What are you talking about?"  
"I was looking for something new, you know? A girl like me needs adventures!"  
She laughed and Dean put the receiver down on the table.  
He rubbed his face and looked up, blinking away tears.  
Dean lifted up the phone again and brought it with a trembling hand back to his ear.  
"Uh-huh! I'm just a bit busy here. Sorry, I'm kind of in a hurry, can we speak another time? I've got your number, so..."  
Liar, she was a liar.  
He threw the telephone off the table and choked back a sob.

  
It was a fucking recording and he fell for it.  
The number, he thought, was given to him by Naomi and thus also by Crowley.  
They must have known that there was no real person on the other end of the line.  
And why else would they have given Dean the number, if not to make him believe their story?  
To make him believe, that Anna was alive and that it all was just a show with dolls and what not.  
To mask that she was dead.  
And why mask, if there was nothing to cover up?  
If it was nothing but an accident?

  
He held up the little bird between his fingers and turned it around, playing with it for a while.  
One part of him felt like toppling the coffee table. To yell and shout in grief, to smash lamps and bottles and anything in sight.  
And another part just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.  
It was a dull pain, that slowly grew as the realization settled in and found a way past the wall of disbelief and denial.  
He got up and poured himself a glass of whiskey to numb himself- it wasn't the first time he had lost someone, he had developed a strategy to cope by now.  
He didn't know her for such a long time, distance yourself, Winchester, the pain will pass eventually.

  
It was just an accident, he told himself.  
Except, it really wasn't an accident.  
Because she wasn't too far away to reach the wire.  
Had she wrapped her fingers around it in that moment, nothing would have happened and the act would have gone on fine.  
But back then, her face displayed an expression not of terror or fear, but of such absolute indifference that it made Dean wonder now what had happened to her before the incident.  
He considered it for a moment, was it suicide?  
And if it was, just what drove her to it?

  
He took another sip of his drink and found comfort in the burn it left behind in his throat.  
She was a nice girl and she deserved justice.  
It was itching now beneath his skin, he had to do something, anything but sitting there deedlessly.  
The whole ordeal had to be investigated properly, that much he owed her as a friend.  
He could go to the police. Bobby could help.  
Dean got up and grabbed his jacket.  
  
  
  
  
So he drove back to the precinct, full of determination and stormed in to find Bobby.  
"What are you doing here again, boy?", he asked Dean and furrowed his brows. "Can't get rid of you, huh?"  
"I need you to investigate a death, immediately. We need to send out a team right now, let-"  
"Calm down", Bobby said and his face darkened, "what happened?"

  
And Dean told him about the show and Anna's act. How she fell, how Naomi showed him the recording.  
"Anna was the name?"  
"Yes."  
"And her real one?"  
"No, it's her real name. She doesn't have an alias."  
"So what's her surname?"  
And Dean paused, because he had never thought of asking her.  
"I don't know."

  
He didn't know anything about her, now that he was giving it a thought.  
Where she came from, if she had siblings, what she did before she came to TUMCONY.

  
"Well, this complicates it a bit", Bobby sighed and wrote something down.  
Bobby asked for the address of the theater and then passed it on to his subordinates, sending them out to cordon off the crime scene.  
"Do you still have the telephone number?"  
Dean nodded and pulled out the card, held the number in front of Bobby, who in turn lifted up the receiver of his telephone.  
He dialed the number and listened.  
And Dean waited for the inevitable confirmation, shifting on the uncomfortable chair.  
Bobby put down the receiver after a small while. He looked at Dean gravely, fondling his beard absentmindedly.  
"Dean", he said slowly, "this phone number doesn't exist."

  
"What", Dean snapped and grabbed the receiver, panic creeping rapidly upon him.  
He dialed the numbers hastily and waited. And waited. Nothing, dead silence.  
He must have made a mistake, he thought hurriedly. In all the excitement he probably picked the wrong numbers, that happens.    
Dean hung up and tried it again, only to repeat it once more upon receiving the same message.

  
"Son..."  
"No, you listen to me, Bobby. I know what I have heard and what I have seen, okay? I'm not lying."  
"I don't doubt that. Just maybe-"  
"Maybe what?" Dean laughed. "I just imagined it? Come on now."  
"In case you missed it, you've been pretty unreliable lately, concerning things you've seen and heard."  
The phone rang and Bobby picked it up gruffly, without letting Dean come to word first.  
"Singer."  
He listened intently and fixed Dean with his eyes.  
"Are you sure? Wayward street?"  
Dean's breath caught in his throat  
A pause and Bobby shut his eyes and sighed.  
"Yeah, alright. Just come back." He put the phone down.

  
"Things are not looking too good for you right now. They haven't found any theater, just an old building that's been boarded shut. It looks like it's going to be demolished some time soon."  
Dean stared at Bobby.  
"That's impossible. What about my card? Turn the paper with the phone number around, the co-director gave it to me personally. There's an official stamp and a signature."  
Bobby plucked it from Dean's hand and flipped it over, then raised an eyebrow.  
"Crowley?" The man looked at the card, as if it was a particularly tasteless joke.  
"That's one shady son of a bitch. And hard to catch as well. Officially he is the CEO of Sands Constructing, but we all know that's not the end of the story. He's got his sticky fingers in lots of things, bootlegging, prositution, he's a major player. But show business? No, that's not his forte."  
He flicked the card back to Dean, who was staring at him in disbelief.  

  
"Listen", Bobby started, "maybe you should go home. Catch some sleep. It was a hard day."  
"No, damn it. I have visited the the show nearly every single day in the past few months and you can't tell me that I've been just dreaming it up!" He was shaking now with frustration and disbelief. "Are you sure they got the right address? Try sending them there again, maybe they missed it! Hell, I can go with them!"  
"You heard me then, they checked the street you told me. They've circled the entire block, it's no good!"  
Dean rubbed his forehead.  
"These sons of a bitch", he muttered and started thinking, breaking his head to gather any piece of information, any proof that might help him. He suddenly shot up  
"Sam and Ruby", he said, "I visited the theater with them, they can confirm it! Give me the phone!"

  
Bobby shook his head and pushed the device reluctantly to Dean who tore the receiver from its retainer.  
He quickly dialed the number of Sam, having memorized it naturally.  
"Come on", he muttered and tapped a quick rhythm on the table.  
Nobody lifted up the receiver, of course. Because his brother had the best timing of all.  
Dean slammed it back into its holder and clutched the arm of his chair.  
"Bobby", he said, almost desperately, "please. You've got to believe me. You've got to open a case for her."  
He pressed his lips to a thin line and said: "I'm sorry."

  
His evidence had ran through his fingers like sand and he was left with nothing but the feeling of absolute helplessness.  
There was nothing he could say or do anymore and Dean felt like screaming.  
He breathed in deeply and gulped, feeling a lump in his throat.  
"I, I'm going to go now."  
"That may be for the best. Get well soon, boy."  
Dean nodded and stumbled out of the office and the precinct.  
  
He drove back home and dove straight into his kitchen cupboard, didn't even bother slipping off his coat. Fished out the bottle,  
poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it like a cup of water.

  
There he sat utterly exhausted on a shitty stool in his shabby kitchen, with its peeling wallpaper, incapable of discerning truth and lie.  
He knocked back another glass and the world got slightly more bearable, as its edges softened.  
One turned into two and two into four.

  
After his sixth glass his surrounding was swaying and Dean staggered into his bathroom to hurl the contents of his stomach in the sink.  
Even after rinsing his mouth, arms braced on the sides of the basin, body heaving, the bitter taste of booze and bile was still tainting his tongue.  
He then held his head under the tap and let the water run over his face. Focusing on nothing but the icy stream dripping off his hair and skin.  
It helped him regain focus and he toweled himself roughly.

  
Dean straightened and looked into the mirror that was hanging above the sink.  
Anna's head wound was still bleeding, but mostly crusted now with dirt and scab, drops trailing down her forehead and running around her eyes. Eyes milky, unseeing and skin covered in spots and gaping cuts.  
Sunken cheeks, stringy hair, bony shoulders.  
The purple costume in which she died was nothing more but a bitter joke, telling of better days, when the spotlight would still caress her and she would dance in the air.  
Her face shifted, skin stretching and bubbling like burnt rubber and Dean shattered the mirror with a cry.  
He spun around in terror but she was already gone.  
The shards tumbled towards the ground, clinking with a sharp sound against the tiles. The faint and distant sound of water rushing in the background. He turned the faucet off and the apartment fell into complete silence.   

  
His hand was bleeding but it didn't matter.  
Dean stumbled back to the living room and passed out on his couch.  
  
  


 

The next morning Dean woke up with a fuzzy tongue, a stiff neck and a raging headache.  
He glanced at his watch and was about to jump up and put on his uniform, Bobby was going to kick his ass, if he came to work so late again, when he remembered the events of the previous day and sank back down.

  
The happenings were coming back slowly and gradually, together with the hurt of Anna's death.  
And he finally got up, went to the washroom, bandaged his wounded hand and then made himself a small breakfast. A slice of stale bread, black coffee and two pills against the pain.  
The scalding bitterness made him think clearer and wake up properly.

  
Anna's necklace was lying on the table and he played with it a bit, traced the outlines of the pendant.  
And he wondered what it was now that he should believe.  
The only thing he was sure of was that something was seriously wrong here and that it was linked to TUMCONY.

  
He clutched the chain and decided to trust his memories and senses and if the police wouldn't help, then to hell with them, he was going to figure out what was happening by himself.  
Dean made his way to the theater and slipped once more backstage to find somebody to talk to.

  
As he was wandering around, he found Benny in the training room practicing idly with a set of knives. The numerous targets were of different materials and sizes, constantly changing their shapes and textures within seconds: A small, round plate that seemed to be made of wood slowly twisted and dripped to the floor like honey, before gently spiraling up to the ceiling and growing branches and twigs of straw. The large, ballon like shape, that was floating above his head, three feet broad and in a startling red color, changing from a cube to hexagon eventually settled on deflating rapidly, whizzing across the room until it took the form of a cork-sized piece of fabric, wound tightly across something firm. Under other circumstances, Dean might have been impressed.     
"Hey", he said instead.

  
Benny greeted him with a wave, whistled and chucked one of the blades carelessly in the general direction of the target. It hit the bull's eye of the fabric cylinder.  
"You haven't been to the last show? T'was a shame, some of us really topped their previous acts."  
Dean snorted.  
"I doubt that's even possible."  
Benny flung another knife.  
"Please, flattery is no approach to life."

Dean picked at his nails. "I didn't feel like it anymore, you know."  
"Had a rough day at work?", Benny asked sympathetically.  
"Not directly. It's just the whole thing with Anna that got me..."  
Benny looked at Dean questioningly.  
"Anna?"  
'Haven't you heard? She-", he hesitated, "she left TUMCONY. They set up a doll in her place and everything, it kind of freaked me out."  
"Who are you talking about, brother? There is nobody called Anna working here."

  
Dean felt the hair at his nape standing up, but he laughed nonetheless.  
"Come on, this isn't funny."  
Benny stared at him blankly.    
"Anna", Dean repeated slowly, "acrobat? She's the show opener."  
But Benny shook his head.  
"Meg does that, that's what she has always been doing. Are you alright, Dean?" He laughed.

  
"No, no I'm not. I've seen you talk with her, stop bullshitting me already!"  
"Calm down."  
He wasn't going to calm down, how could he, if the whole world was telling him that he was going insane?  
Dean closed his eyes and said: "Look, sorry, I've got to go. Catch you later."  
And he left Benny behind and sprinted through the hallways, looking for answers and the verification that he wasn't losing it.  
He asked anyone who crossed his way and always, the answer was "I'm sorry, who?".  
  
  
Dean came to an halt in front of Gabriel.  
"You", Dean panted, as Gabriel raised an eyebrow, "do you remember Anna?"  
"Yeah, duh, of course I do. Are you claiming that I'm getting old?"

  
"Listen", Dean said, "this is serious. There's something fucking weird going on here, alright."  
And he told Gabriel what he experienced, the apparent amnesia of the workers. That Anna moved to another circuit.  
The comedian was listening to him indifferently and unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and jammed it in his mouth.  Rolled the silver wrapping to a tiny ball.

  
"Right, I heard of the fall."  
Gabriel whistled lowly and dropped the packaging dramatically to the floor.  
"Like a brick. Get it? Because of her red hair and all that blood?"  
Dean swallowed hard. Gabriel must have believed Crowley and Naomi, he had no idea of the truth. For him, it was just an illusion.  
And Dean made a decision.  
"Listen", he rasped, "I lied. But hear me out, it might be hard but..."  
"Oh, I know. She is dead."  
And Gabriel grinned and chewed merrily on his candy.  
"Everyone knows. Well, whoever remembers her anyway, I suppose."

  
Dean stared at him.  
"What?", was all he managed to say but the comedian shrugged his shoulders.  
"You know, people come and go all the time. It's nothing new, that's what life is like."  
"She was your friend", Dean said.  
"Are you still hung up about it? Getting all teary-eyed, big boy?"  
He looked at Dean with a patronizing smirk.    
"Come on, get over it. If you dwell forever on your past, you'll eventually break. Here, take this."  
Gabriel offered him a chocolate bar.  
"Maybe your blood sugar is getting low."

  
Dean slapped it out of his hand and yanked Gabriel by his flimsy collar in his direction.  
"I don't want your shitty candy", he hissed, "I want answers. How can you talk about her like this, when she died just yesterday?"  
"Oho, looks like somebody has a crush. Too bad she kicked the bucket, but hey, you can always try your luck with ouija boards."  
Dean was going to punch that grin off his face, or so help him God.

  
"Am I interrupting?"  
Bela sashayed towards the two men, loose fabric hanging around her hips. Dean hadn't noticed her arriving and let go of Gabriel.  
"You were looking quite preoccupied."  
"It's really nothing", Gabriel purred, "Dean is just making a fuss about Anna."  
She looked at him questioningly.  
"You know, red hair, swingy thing, cracked her head open yesterday."  
"Oh, her! That was my dress she was wearing and now it's gone. It's terrible how irresponsible people are nowadays!"  
"It's a dress. A piece of cloth", Dean spat.  
"It's silk, very expensive and rare. And while some people would die for it, I don't expect them to die in it."  
"You're sick."  
"Charming as always."  
"Alright, ladies. I must go, I've heard that Abaddon has left her room and you know what this means."  
Gabriel waggled his eyebrows.  
"You aren't only as tall as a schoolboy, but you also have the mind of one."

  
The banter sickened Dean.  
Maybe it was the shock, he thought, that caused them to act this way.  
Perhaps they didn't realize what had happened and lived in denial, he has heard of cases like this.  
But the fact, that Bela was more concerned with garment than the death of a colleague, a friend almost, left him in utmost concern. And it was wrong, the way they just continued their lives without a second thought, not even deviating slightly from their patterns. Unable to feel.    
  
Castiel was looking out of his window when Dean approached him. Buzzing cars and people like ants beneath him.  
"Have you heard about Anna?", the storyteller asked carefully, back still turned to Dean.  
"You still remember her?", Dean asked.  
Cas tilted his head. "Why shouldn't I?"

  
"Things have been a bit weird here, you know."  
Dean licked his lips, grasping for the right words, like fingers through air. And he looked at the polished floor, the shining lights, the shrill laughter of the performers, the perfect, perfect theater and he breathed in and said: "Cas, I think there's something wrong with this theater."  
The man turned around, eyes lighting up with confusion.  
"What do you mean?"  
His breath hitched, voice harsh. "I mean that Anna was murdered."

  
Castiel's pressed his lips to a thin line, eyes steelen. "She was ill and fell off the wire, Dean. It was a terrible misfortune."  
But Dean's heart skipped at his reaction, because Castiel was sad and angry, Castiel cared and that was all he need to know.  
He told him everything, the phone call, his conversation with Bobby and the other performers and Cas simply nodded, his back a straight line. He grimaced and looked out of the window again. They sat in silence next to each other.

  
"Do you believe me?", Dean asked. Castiel opened his mouth, as if he wanted to speak, then halted, clamping it shut again and Dean knew: No, of course he didn't. He wouldn't believe it himself, if he hadn't experienced it on his own body.

  
Then:    
"I don't know", Cas replied. Shadows flickering over his face, as he moved closer to Dean. "I had the suspicion something was slightly off but it wasn't something I dwelled on."  
Now it was Dean's turn to be confused.  
"Sometimes I have...these memories. Flashes of people, who seem familiar but who I don't remember", Cas said.  
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"  
Castiel shook his head, eyes clear and wide. Dean always had the feeling Cas knew exactly what to think and what to believe but in that moment he seemed like a child, innocent and lost.  
"Whom could I tell?", he asked instead. Dean didn't know and his voice caught in his throat so he looked out of the window, as if the road and the flashing lights held the answers to the questions that swirled through his head.  
They leaned side by side on the window still, arms brushing each other and fingers dangling above the streets.

  
"I miss her", Castiel said, simple and clean cut, because that's all he needed to convey what he meant. Three little words, eight letters, and everything was said.  
"Yeah."  
Their bodies propped up against each other, fingers intertwined. And that was that.    
"Say, do you know Anna's surname?," Dean asked.  
Cas negated and so did all the other workers that he asked after that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

That night when Dean was asleep, the smell he used to sense in his dreams returned, but for the first time it had changed. Of course it still was repugnant, overflowing latrines and stale mud but not the sticky sweetness of candy that crept into it by the edges, tugging at the picture by its corners.   
It was quiet in no-man's-land, the sort of dreadful silence that weighted on your heart and mind more than any amount of equipment could on your shoulders. Wind whistling across the barren land, flipping through the clothes of the men who died in between the barbed wires or got dumped out there.   
The silence, Dean thought, was perhaps worse than the smell, because it never was of permanence, always making way for the harsh rip through the air caused by an exploding grenade.

  
Fellow soldiers to his side, he knew they were there but couldn't see them, as if he had a tunnel vision.

  
Dean slowly made his way across the piles of debris, tree trunks ahead of him like broken toothpicks, when he saw something move in the corner of his eye.  
The cold metal of his gun bit his skin, he swiveled around but there was nothing, nobody, only the memory of something bright rumbling past him, gone before he could even focus on it. A wild animal? An injured man?

  
He felt sweat running down the back of his neck, eyes scanning the area once again.   
Whatever ended up here, better stayed here as well.   
His steady huffs, the pounding of his heart rang in his ears along with his heavy footsteps.   
Then it hit him again, where were the others? Wasn't he supposed to patrol alongside them? Had he lost them?   
He turned around once again, dimly making out the trenches in the distance- but the others were nowhere to be seen and something in Dean's stomach lurched in fear. Had they fallen already, hadn't he noticed?

Dean felt something knock the air out of his lungs, the man must have hidden behind the pile of dirt over there, waiting for his chance to strike. Bayonet piercing skin, barely missing his vital organs, Dean scrambled back to his feet and lunged forwards with a shout.   
One careless moment, the enemy lifting his hands to fumble at his gun, a strip of cloth on his chest and Dean pushed the blade through, twisting it with one swift moment. Dean loaded the gun, pulled the trigger, cherished the sound of splattering meat and the man fell in front of him.

The rush of exhilartion and euphoria filled his veins, clouding his mind and making him smile. It didn't matter that the man would never see his family again, if it meant that Dean got the chance to return to his own, to see his brother look up to him as an hero.   
But at what price? What would Sammy say, if he knew what he had done?

Dean approached the corpse with caution, gun ready to fire at a moment's notice, when he noticed the spill of red beneath his opponent's helmet, vivid and shining in between the grey dirt.   
He prodded the figure roughly with his foot and it turned over sluggishly, a slab of meat.   
The long lashes were encircling open eyes, giving the person such an expression of life still floating through veins but yet the motionless stare told about fear and death. The neck frail and graceful, arms swamped in rough clothing.  
And then, for a moment, everything was deafening noise for Dean, a complete shut down of all his senses that left him reeling in disbelief and panic, this wasn't fucking possible, how could it, what the fuck was that, what had he done.  
Anna mouthed his name with a shuddering breath.  
  
There had been signs. He should have known that something was wrong, should have interfered earlier. He could have saved her.  
  
  
  


The following weeks, Dean researched. He dove through the archives and ripped through the papers on the search for an inkling of truth, anything that would give him some sort of information on TUMCONY, on its owners.

  
If he couldn't save Anna, he thought, then at least he could unveil the circumstances of her death.   
His schedule shifted and by the time the librarians started greeting him, he still hadn't found anything useful yet. But TUMCONY didn't seem to exist on any form of documents, neither the performers.  
And from day to day he grew more anxious, he started spending his nights wide awake, pouring over the information, or rather the lack of, he collected, trying to string together anything he could get his hands on. Because none of it quite made sense.

  
It was maddening, he thought, how everytime he seemed to think that he caught a trace, it simply clashed with something else. He had tried to enter the main building of Sands Constructing, a brand new skyscraper with clean lines and sharp edges, but couldn't make it past the lobby.   
Every other person he asked, even those from whom he knew very well that they had relations with the firm, weren't helpful.   
Their information was often contradictory, often jumbled, sometimes a little too rushed.  
An acquaintance from Bobby, who was working in the company, told Dean: "I've heard of him, that fella Crowley. He did have admirable working ethics, the way I remember him. Where he had been before he started out at Sands Constructing? Well, now, you don't expect me to remember the background of every employee, do you?"  
And then, from an elderly woman: "Oh, I've been working here for a long, long time. And Mister Crowley is such a charming man! You know, when I felt awfully ill last winter, he payed my doctor's bills and gave me two weeks off! It is nice to know that there's at least one honest, good hearted man on the face of earth."       "Oh, it used to be some sort of poorly constructed building", the street vendor in front of the theater said, upon being asked about it, "it's great that they're rebuilding it now. What's the name of the contractor again? Ah, if I could remember."

  
Dean even tried plugging into his shadier sources, small-time criminals, people who still owed him one, in the hopes they heard something through the grapevine: And by the way they winced at the name and clamped their mouths shut, they had.   
For a brief moment Dean had entertained calling Ruby, asking her for help. But then Sam had called him and wanted to fix their next dinner on the coming Sunday, 7 PM, and Dean said yes, and any motivation he previously had evaporated.  
He knew that it was impossible. That there had to be some sort of documentation of TUMCONY and its owners, anything really, that would prove its existance. But there wasn't, never anything at all.

On one Friday evening, he trotted into the library just as usual, laid down everything he collected in a secluded spot, at the back of the reading room and mulled over it. It was a quiet day, most people had left already.  
He was not particularly smart, he knew that, and the feeling of restlessness kept creeping up on him more frequently than usual. But goddamn, if he wasn't one stubborn son of a bitch.

  
Over the weeks he hadn't managed to gather many useful things.    
A picture of Crowley, from the day he took over Sands Constructing, a fat smile plastered on his face, a couple of crumbling articles in which he was mentioned, talking about 'the prosperity that Mister Crowley brought to Sands Constructing over the years'. A list of employees, who had been working at the company.   
Dean pushed it infront of him, traced the edges of the paper.   
The only thing that had turned up about Naomi was a photo of her printed in the papers, hair tied into a neat bun and cloth concealing the entirety of her body, posing next to a group of children in a cold room, rows of beds in the background. Our beloved Mrs., name blotted out with spilled ink, spending time with the sick and frail.   
Dean had nearly ripped it out of the page, completely sucked in by the image and had largely ignored the content of the text. Something along the lines of a new governmental project being funded, maybe local hospitals.  
Dean furrowed his brows, eyes burning with the strain of staring at the papers for such a long time. He was missing something, damn it, think, Winchester, think, think, think.

Something clinked to his right and Dean found a man taking a stealthy swig of a bottle, his face eerily familiar: Hadn't he seen him at the raid at the warehouse?   
He hicked, turned to Dean, eyes somewhat glazed.  
"We've met before", the man slurred.  
Dean hesitated a moment before he replied. "Sorry, man, you must be wrong."  
The man nodded a few times sagely and cracked a smile. "What're you working on?"  
"Who wants to know that?"  
He pushed himself off the table he was sitting at, staggered heavily towards Dean.  
"Carver Edlund", he proclaimed loudly, "s'my name. You're not going to wave a gun in front of face this time, too, are you?" He chuckled and Dean eyed him warily.  
"Neat collection, though." 

  
the man bent down and took in the documents, gaze halting briefly at Crowley's photo.  
"You know him?", Dean asked.  
"What, McLeod? We've met before, but that's such a long, long time ago."  
"McLeod?", he asked, lips stretching around the words far too sharply, "Is that his name?"  
The man shrugged his shoulders, fingers trailing the wood lazily. "A name is nothing", Carver said. "Fergus McLeod. That damn son of a bitch."

  
Dean turned to him, the new piece of information flaming up brightly in his mind.  
"Tell me about him."  
"Not much to say, let's see. He was a Scottish immigrant. His mother was some crazy lunatic, babbling about evil spirits and demons until she got taken away. It must have seriously messed him up when he was a kid. He was going to become a tailor but I guess he found faster ways to make cash, went off the deep end."  
"And you know that because...?"  
Carver's eyes flickered back down to the photo of him. Smug smile, dark hair, eyes sparkling with cunning, hairline receding.  
"My wife slept with him, probably, maybe. Ex-wife, though. She's always hated my guts."  
"Wow, that's sucks. I'm sorry, dude."   
Carver shrugged in a way that seemed to proclaim 'shit happens'.  
"Anyway, McLeod told me about this stuff once, my first encounter with him actually. This sure brings up some memories, the picture looks just the way I remember him."  
"Really? When did you meet?"  
"Oh, that must have been 1891."

It knocked the air out of Dean's lungs, felt like a veil was lifted from his eyes, a numb coldness gnawing its way up his fingers. 1891. That was nearly thirty years ago.  
"You sure you didn't make a mistake?"  
He shook his head. "Nah, I'm sure. November 12th 1891- I remember the date, because he took over that company exactly one year later. Oh, what was its name again?"    
Dean laughed. "You're bullshitting me, right? There's no way he could...I mean..." He furrowed his eyebrows. No, he couldn't be wrong, he had read the article on Crowley taking over dozens of times. There was no way, that-

  
Dean turned around to confront the man but he had left without him noticing. He flipped around to the papers, laying neatly in front of him and suddenly it clicked into place, strings connecting and letters switching and nothing, absolutely nothing, making sense and he felt like slapping himself, because in all this time it had never occured to him to check the dates.  
Dean jammed the papers back into his folder and was about to leave the room, when he started hearing it.

The sound of rhythmic clapping, jumbled yells and roars of laughter, quietly echoing from the walls like an invisible audience.   
Dean's eyes scanned the now empty room. A few books were strewn across the tables.   
The noise grew louder. The lamps shone brightly. He was alone and for some reason, it made him uneasy, fear niggling at his neck.  
It was by far not the first time he had found himself on his own here, for fuck's sake, he was, had been, a cop.It was his job to keep his nerves, when others couldn't and wouldn't.  
Dean licked his lips, pushed himself off the chair and wiped his hands on his trousers. Get a grip, get a grip.   
Then a sharp cry of surprise to his right, Dean spun around and the noise vanished, all the noise vanished as if on cue. What the hell?

Silence settled thickly between the rows of chairs in the library, dripping like honey to the floor. He cleared his throat, irrationally glad to hear himself and left the room with long strides.  
He entered the main hall, thick towers of books to his left and right, a tunnel of old paper and ink. The ceiling was a high arch with another floor filled with books beneath it. Still, silence ringing in his ears.   
He walked down the aisle listening to the clicks of his shoes on the parquet, his unsteady breaths, the rustle of paper to his left.  
The lights went out. Dean was alone. 

  
And the feeling of panic flared up like a forest fire for one brief moment, before it got replaced by the dull thrum of annoyance.   
Fucking great, he thought, I'm gonna trip over a book.

  
"Hello?", he asked and oddly felt relief at hearing his own voice ringing out in the silence like a pebbel dropped into a well.  
Silence. Where were the librarians?   
Dean took a deep breath, but was it just him or...did something in the air change? It was thicker somehow, cloyed with the scent of something sweet. Candy, perhaps? Popcorn, even?

He swallowed the lump in his throat, the lights he thought, it must be a power outage. His pace quickened, the rustling returned. Something laughed, bright and cheery.  
Dean stopped, breath hitched, eyes darting around in the dark.  
"Hey- who's that?", he shouted. "Cut this crap out already!"    
A dark figure vanished behind a bookshelf.   
Dean paused again, thoughts swirling in his minds, but then decided to follow as quietly as possible- whomever was trying to mess with him was going to get the shock of their life.

  
But whenever he reached a junction, always just in time to see the shadow of a man dart around another corner, it seemed as if a thousand new ways opened up and really, was that even possible? He had been frequenting this library in the last few weeks, but was it the room even that big?

  
Something splashed beneath him, floor suddenly smooth as ice and Dean barely managed to hold on to a shelf.   
He lifted his shoe and found something dripping from it. A quick swipe of the liquid, disturbingly warm to the touch, a quick sniff that let his stomach turn. Blood.   
Whoever had lost it must still be around and given the amount of blood they lost, they couldn't have gotten far.  
The next problem was, what had caused such a grave injury?

Dean reached for the gun he kept tucked away beneath his back, slowly drawing it up to his chest. Felt adrenaline coursing through his veins, mind sharp like a razor and every single muscle in his body coiled in anticipation.  
He moved quietly, hyper aware of every single step he made, of every breath he sucked in. Blood racing in his ears. His eyes grew used to the darkness in the room, dimly making out a trail of smeared blood ahead of him.   
His clammy fingers flexed around the gun.

  
Turned around the corner, eyes darting from side to side, Dean licked his dry lips but it was no good.  
 Silence. Was it just his impression or were the aisles getting narrower and narrower?

  
He sucked in a breath. Damn books, closing in on him, the sense of dread weighting heavily on his chest. His eyes were fixed on the floor.  
The trail ended two feet ahead of him, a small puddle of dark liquid. Drip.  
Dean's gaze wandered up to the bookshelf and everything around him went to hell.

Deafening noise crashed on him like a breaking wave, delighted screams and shouts numbing his ears, a spotlight glid across the room and finally stopped above the wet spot.

Gabriel was nailed to the bookshelf, immovably attached to the wall behind him, arms spread out wide, one leg angled, oddly dislocated.   
Multiple lacerations on his body, carved up to his bones, strategically placed stab wounds and slashes, in order to maximize the pain, Dean had to know.   
Gabriel's blood covered the books behind him in two large arcs, almost scarlet wings. Shoulders slouched, chin resting on his chest.

Dean staggered backwards, the earth was turning beneath his feet, how was that possible, who would have done this?  
And Dean felt sick when he saw the way Gabriel's skin was flaying around the cuts, because wasn't that how he dealt with the enemies he got his hands on back in the war? It was meant for him, somebody had wanted him to see this.

Dean's hands were shaking now, and he tucked the gun away, wanted to move towards Gabriel's corpse, move him down, save the last shred of dignity. But the man's head snapped up, as if someone pulled a string attached to it.

Gabriel opened his eyes, glazed over, staring right into Dean, and a grin stretched slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other.  
He pursed his lips, preparing to speak. Blood dripped from his mouth. Suddenly his body jolted, seized up completely, fingers twitching and head shaking erratically. He let out a low groan, stretched his neck, all cracking vertebrae and Dean watched him in complete and utter horror.  
Suddenly his jaw started moving, lips lolling around between his teeth and he made a string of noises, incoherent like the babbling of a small child, like a broken machine. Jumbled nonsense without any proper meaning at an inhuman speed, arbitary vowels and consonants as if some part of him had forgotten the purpose of words, only remembering the alphabet. Rattling on and on, head nodding in jerky movements.  
He paused. Then he said: "Too late for both of us, ain't it, Dean-o?"

Clear and without fault, the same lilt in his voice Dean was used to but not a trace of humor in it.  
Gabriel heaved, scrunching his eyes shut, as if he was laughing heavily, but he didn't make a sound, not one.  
And the walls closed in.

"Sir?"  
Dean flipped around and stared into the face of an elderly woman, a librarian.  
"Sir! Are you alright?" The furrows in her face were illuminated by warm light, as she reached out to touch his shoulder but Dean flinched and turned back to the bookshelf. Alright? No, he was fucking peachy! Was the woman blind, couldn't she see that-  
The body was gone and so was the blood. He blinked, checked the surroundings. Two shelves around him and books that he must have knocked out were strewn across the clean parquet.  
"What the hell", he muttered. Was it another trick his mind played on him? It was impossible, how could it have vanished, when it felt so disturbingly real-  
"Excuse me?"  
He turned back to the woman who was looking at him with a concerned expression.  
"Uh", he said, "Yeah, I'm- I'm good."

  
"Sir, you've been staring at this bookshelf for the past few minutes. I'm inclined to doubt your statement."  
 "Had a bit too little sleep last night, I suppose.” He cracked a smile and she raised an eyebrow. She probably thought he came straight from the mental institute. Dean cleared his throat.  
"Sorry about..." He gestured towards the books, bending down to pick the first one up.  
"Oh no, don't you worry about them, sir. I'll take care of the mess."   
Dean shot her a thankful glance. "Alright, thanks. I'm, uh- going home then. Catch a little sleep."  
"Are you going to borrow this?" She pointed at the book he was still holding absent mindedly.  
'Practice of the Occult', it read. Dean dropped it and left.  


"Dean?"  
"We need to talk, now."  
Castiel looked up from his papers to where Dean had stormed in mere seconds ago, chest heaving and cheeks flushed.  
"Is there something wrong?"  
Dean snorted a laugh. "More like the understatement of the year." He fingers were digging into the manila envelope he had brought along. Cas furrowed his brows and put his pen down. "What happened?"

  
Dean nodded and grinned half-heartedly, then walked over to Castiel's table and laid the contents of the envelope on it.  
Photos, articles, documents, all spread out on top of the wooden desk.  
"You've gathered more information on TUMCONY, I see?" Cas arranged the papers into a square formation, pushing the photos to the left and the documents to the right.  
"I've been digging a bit lately, yeah."  
"Was your research conclusive, then?"  
"The only conclusion I draw right now, is that I was right. Something ain't kosher here, Cas."

  
Castiel leaned against the back of his chair and Dean jabbed a finger on one of the photos.  
"Take a look at this", he said, pointing to the image of Crowley. "That picture's nearly thirty years old."  
Cas reached out for it, hand brushing Dean's as he carefully removed it from his grip and brought it up to his frowning face.  
"Are you sure? That seems a little..."  
"Weird? Really fucking weird? I went back and double checked it again, unless someone meddled with the publication date this ought to be the real deal." Dean slammed his hand on his table, eyes trained on Cas. "You can't tell me that's normal, dude. Crowley ought to look like a shriveled potato by now."

  
Castiel placed his hands carefully on his desk, fingers spread widely. Breathed in heavily.  
"Dean, I'm sure there's..."  
"A what? A logical explanation?" Dean shoke his head, walked up and down in front of the table, feet scuffing the carpet. "I wish, man, I wish. And that's not all, no. I've digged deeper. Did you know that there's literally nothing on Crowley before he took over Sands Constructing? Like, zip, nada, null. But you know of who I've got more information? Fergus McLeod."  
He gestured to a long list of names and data, painstakingly typed on several pages that were clipped together.  

  
"Fergus McLeod was a fucking salesman in Sands Constructing, went around and sealed the deal with the clients. And one day, he simply calls himself Crowley and takes over the company, just like that. He was nowhere near the head of the foodchain, he shouldn't have even gotten the shot at the position of a CEO, but nobody ever complained. As for Naomi, turns out she's working in the government as a secretary, officially at least. Husband is deceased apparently, there is practically no information on him."

  
"Crowley and Naomi are good people", Cas replied mechanically.  
"We don't know that for sure."  
But Castiel shook his head, voice more forceful than before: "No, they are good people."  
Dean furrowed his brows, reached out a hand to his shoulder, "Cas", but he flinched and moved a step back.  
"Crowley and Naomi are good people, Crowley and Naomi are good people, Crowley and Naomi are good people and they will not harm-"  
"Damn it, Cas, snap out of it!"

  
 Cas halted, face scrunching up in confusion, wrinkling with doubt. Eyes flickering in incomprehension, when the sentences he uttered slowly sank in.  
"What the hell was that?"  
Cas was silent.  
"That's not what I wanted to say...", he whispered in horror, disbelief maybe. He screwed his eyes shut, rubbed at his forehead and Dean didn't think he had ever seen him like that before. His head moved back up, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and clear as ever.     
"But what does this have to do with us?"

  
Dean blinked, taken aback by the sudden switch, then barked a laugh. "No fucking clue. But isn't that the point? That this doesn't make any fucking sense? How, no, why would the owner of a construction firm and a civil servant even run a fricking vaudeville show?"  
Castiel's eyes flitted from evidence to evidence, his lips a thin line.  
"Dean, maybe you're reading too much into this."    
"Really? Then tell me, Cas, how exactly am I supposed to read this?"  
"I don't know, alright! Listen-" Castiel rose up, teeth gritted and eyes steelen, Dean could feel puffs of hot air on his face. "I know just as little as you do. I have never heard of this information before, I swear on my life." For a moment they stood there, leaning into each other's personal space across the desk, something thrumming thick in the air.

  
Cas sucked in a breath, turned his face away, eyelashes casting thin shadows on his cheeks. Then he looked back up at Dean, all harsh eyes and unforgiving tongue.  
"I must know for certain. Are you sure that this is the truth?"  
"Are you asking if I'm fucking ly-"  
"Dean", his voice was filled with urgency, impatience barely contained, "I am asking you: Are you certain, that what you just told me is the absolute, unconditional truth?"

  
"Yes", he replied without a single moment of hesitation.  
Castiel nodded and glanced aside.  
"TUMCONY, it's all I have known in these years. It is a difficult decision to leave that behind. I just had to make sure before I tossed away my faith."  
His eyes locked with Dean's.

  
"Cas..."  
"You are a good man, Dean. And if you say that what you speak is true, I will believe you and I will follow you."  
Maybe it was because Dean's mouth was dry and his head was spinning from all the thoughts that were racing through his mind or maybe it was because he was feeling sappy in the dusk.  
But beneath the sharp glint of the chandelier's light, he thought Cas to be beautiful.

  
"Now what, Dean?" It was a loaded question and there were so many ways to answer it, so many ways to butcher it.  
So he shrugged his shoulders.  
"Fuck, if I know."  
Both of them snorted at the answer and Dean smiled at the way Cas' eyes wrinkled and the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed, and something in his chest fluttered at the mere thought of it. But just as quick as the moment had come, it passed, leaving both of them unsure and with a lot of pictures and questions.  
"We're going to figure this out, man. Promise." His voice was so sure and strong, it nearly convinced himself.

  
Something in Castiel's features softened, smoothed out at that sentence and it made Dean's breath hitch.  
The grandfather's clock in the back of the room stroke seven and Dean was struck with the realization that he had forgotten something.  
"Shit! Cas, I've got to go, I was supposed to meet up with Sam today, I..."  
"Goodbye, Dean."  
He left the room in a hurry and a small part of him wished he hadn't.  
  
  
  
It took him about half an hour to get to 'The Roadhouse'. But despite the howling wind and pouring rain, despite his delay, he found himself happy: His conversation with Cas had ended on a good note and he was getting to see his brother again in what felt like ages!  
His excitement crumpled to a small pile of ashes, when he saw the familiar curves of Ruby pouring over the menu, entirely unaccompanied by his brother. And of course she was sitting on his favorite place, after all she must have expected him. That woman really did everything in her might to spite him. He managed to reduce his anger to a low simmering and walked over to her.

  
"Where's Sam?"  
"Glad to see you too, Dean", she drawled, didn't even bother looking up from that fucking menu, as if it was the most interesting piece of information in the world. She paused her perusual for a moment to steal a glance at her watch, then turned back to the menu.  
"Only half an hour too late! We must be feeling punctual today."

  
"Just answer the goddamn question", he snapped. Her eyes skirted upwards once more, eyebrows raised.  
"Jeez, aren't we a bag of sunshine today? Take a seat already, dumbass. Remember, Sam would have wanted us to get along."

  
He did, though begrudingly.  
"Where is he anyway?", Dean said.  
"Don't get your panties in a twist", she said, dark eyes rolling in their sockets underneath thick lashes, "he left. Sam said he couldn't wait for you all evening and he had some work to do. He actually wanted me to come with him but I suggested staying here to inform you- and isn't that so sweet of me?" She gestured to herself, words enunciated overly clearly.  
"Like saccharine, I'm sure." He smiled at her scowl.

  
"I'd better gone with him", she sighed and layed down the menu, crossing her legs beneath the table, "at least your brother knows how to treat a lady."  
"Well, if he puts up with you, he could have waited those thirty minutes for me. It's not like he's the only one who needs to work", Dean muttered darkly.

  
Jo walked over and Ruby ordered a bag of fries.  
"What about you, Dean? Same as always?"  
"Nah, I'm about to leave anyway." He shot Ruby a glare.  
"You don't want to keep Ellen company?" She glanced upstairs.  
"Oh, hell no. I think her hooch is screwing with me." Jo's eyebrows hit her hairline and she flipped her notebook shut.  
"Who are you and what have you done to Dean Winchester?"  
"Shut up."

  
Ruby watched them silently and waited until Jo's laughter died down and she left before she asked: "Screwing with you?"  
Long fingers and bright nails tucked beneath her chin. "And working overtime at that?" Her voice was laced with disbelief and suspicion, how he hated her arrogant glances.  
"A Foreign concept?"  
"Considering that you're spending most of your time at TUMCONY, I might ask you the same."  
She smirked in satisfaction at the sight of his muscles twitching beneath their skin, the way his jaw tensed suddenly.  
"Have you been following me or what?"  
"Oh, please", she leaned against the back of her seat, "don't flatter yourself. I have better things to do in my pastime."

  
Honestly, he'd rather chop of his hand than talk with Ruby. He should have left the moment he saw her sitting there, she was not worth a second of his time. If only Sam had waited and Dean felt the bitter taste of betrayal clawing up his throat, annoyance and anger knocking against the back of his teeth, begging to be spilled.

  
"You've been trying to figure out the history of TUMCONY, am I right? After poor, poor Anna kicked the bucket."  
She laughed sharply at the way his eyes widened. "Oh, I so hit the bull's eye. You're such a terrible liar, Dean, it'd be hilarious, if it wasn't that pathetic."  
 He stayed seated. "What do you know about her?"  
"Well, for starters that it was no accident." Ruby's eyes flashed slyly. "And that there's way more to it than you think."  
"From where..."  
"I get around a lot."  
She plucked a fry from the basket that had been served to her in the mean time and popped it into her mouth.

  
"That's it?", he asked, "That's all you know?"  
"Dean, I know more than you ever will, but I'm going to tell you jack shit." Her fingers traced the edge of the basket.  
"Don't you hate the fries here? They're practically drenched in salt and fat, it's disgusting." She ate another one.    
"Listen", he said and leaned forwards, "I don't like you. In fact, I hate your freaking guts and I wish you'd leave your filthy claws of my brother. And I know that you're not fond of me either."  
"Not fond is a nice way of putting it."  
"Whatever. The point is, that something's seriously wrong there and I need to figure out what it is."

  
She squinted her eyes, her lips a mean line. "Why should I tell you anything? After the way you've treated me? You'd probably find a way to use it against me in the end and I'm not having that, no thanks."  
"You deserved it. I know you, I know your personal file, I know everything about you, and you are not who you pretend to be."  
She laughed, anger flickering behind her eyes. "You don't know shit about me, Winchester, and don't you dare believe for even one second that you do."  
"I'm going to ask you this one more time: What do you know about TUMCONY?"

  
"You don't fucking get it, do you? You're treating me like scum, always whining about how I'm bad for your brother. Excuse me, that I'm not willing to share my assets with you!"   
Anger, flaring up brightly in his chest. "Stop playing dumb, woman! We both know your track record! And yeah, I've no idea what your ulterior motives are, whether it's for the cash or the kick of it. But I know that it ain't good and that I'm going to put an end to it."

  
Something ugly crossed her face, features scrunched up in anger and plain hatred.  
"I love your brother", she said with a trembling voice, pressed out from between bared teeth, "and he loves me."

  
"Oh, come on, who are you trying to fool? Sammy might love your role, love how you’re acting."  
She shoke her head, almost desperately. "You don't understand. He loves me. He needs me. And maybe that's the damn problem. You can't stand it, poor baby Sammy, who stands you up after all these years, after all you've done for him; you can't stand that he needs some fucking slut from the gutters more than you. Have you ever considered that you might be wrong, Dean?"  
She laughed, eyes wide with fury. "Cause this bitch here, right in front of you? She's saved the life of your brother. Has Sam ever told you how we first met?"

  
Dean was silent.  
"He nearly got trampled by a horse, Dean. It broke lose from a carriage and panicked. If I hadn't pulled him back then, your brother would have died that day", she spat, "and this is how you fucking thank me."

  
And Dean felt guilt pool in the bottom of his stomach, mouth dry and clamped shut, hand resting quietly on the table.  
"Just- just because, I've done some shitty stuff in the past, you treat me like absolute shit, Dean. And I'm not gonna deny it, alright, I  did some fucked up things back then, but I was desperate. I had no choice! I'm not begging you to like me. I don't give a fuck about your opinion of me, but I want to be treated with some basic decency, like an actual human being." She breathed in heavily, cheeks flushed with anger.  
"People change, Dean. But obviously, that's a foreign concept to you." She pushed the half empty basket with fries away from her.  
"Maybe that's why you're stuck in your petty research."

  
She stood up, grabbing her jacket with more force than necessary and was making her way out of the diner but Dean's hand shot forwards and clamped around her wrist.  
She flipped around, hair bouncing up, jewelry clinking against her dress and eyes shining with wrath. "Let me go."   
He clenched his fist, fingers leaving ugly marks on her wrist and she winced.  
"What the hell did that mean?", Dean barked.  
"You're the cop, you find out. Don't you have archives for this kind of stuff?" She yanked her hand free, catching Dean off guard and jut her chin out.

  
Dean saw her raising her hand, muscles tensed in her arm and before he had the chance to register what she was doing, she had slapped him sharply across the face. Strong enough to send him tumbling a few steps backwards, loud enough to alert the last few patrons in the diner, who hadn't been disturbed by Ruby's ranting already, of the red headprint on Dean's cheek. Dean reached up gingerly to soothe the stinging pain erupting where she had hit him.    
Ruby rightened the ring on her finger that had shifted after the slap. Her voice was steady and calm when she spoke up.  
"Don't you dare touch me again like that, asshole."  
She left the diner with a straight back and long strides.  
  
  
He drove back home after paying for her fries, hand absent-mindedy rubbing his cheek. Had Ruby been right? Had he really misjudged her and her motives?   
He carefully thought about the way she stuck out her chest, when she had talked to him, the way her eyes glimmered with hurt and anger. He cursed violently.   
When had life become so complicated, with Ruby being suddenly maybe right and Sam never showing up anymore and those messed up things he kept seeing, oh God, just what was up with that?   
But then there was TUMCONY with its brilliant, brilliant shows and Cas with his low voice and clear eyes and-    
And Dean neither knew what to think nor what to feel.

A wet spot was developing underneath the cloth rack, where he had hung his jacket to dry when he had entered his apartment.  
The noise of the dripping water was even hearable from the bedroom.   
Ruby's words ran through his mind in an infinite loop, 'Don't you have archives', 'Don't you have archives'. They did and he couldn't claim that he hadn't thought about sneaking a glance at them.

  
But he knew the files there by heart, he would have known if something struck him odd.  
Unless of course... Unless he hadn't seen them, too old, a cold case. They stored those in a small room at the very back of the precinct, he had been there a couple of times before.    
Dean propped his head on a hand, leg tapping a nervous rhythm on the floor.   
He could pick locks, he leared that when he was a kid. It was not very difficult once you got the hang of it and the security measures of the station were really quite low.   
But he didn't have a permit, you'd need to be tasked with the case and get the key from your supervisor. Dean could get in serious trouble for this.  
Besides there was no guarantee that there was anything about TUMCONY in the first place. He gnawed on his lip.  
On the other hand, what was there left for him to lose?

At 11 PM sharp he arrived at the police station. The trick, Dean knew, was to act as if you belonged there. And didn't he?   
It was odd to trot back into these familiar walls after weeks without seeing them. His tipped his hat deeper in his face, his suit that he straightened previously blended in with the other civilians, who were still up at this late hours.

  
At night the station was quieter but not by much: People were still rushing about, filing reports and arguing loudly over cups of coffee.   
He snuck past the reception, careful to avoid any familiar faces, oh, don't turn around now, I swear to God, you son of a bitch...   
He flipped around, weaving his way through a cluster of people and hurried down the aisle with a confident stride. Back in these areas it was less common for civilians to get lost in and in the late hours it was nearly deserted.

The door was painted dark brown, paint peeling off in thin strips and window milky. Dean felt nervousness bubble up and he breathed in deeply, went down on his knees to inspect the lock.  
As expected, it was nothing too difficult, nothing you couldn't crack open with a hairpin or two.   
His head twisted over his shoulder again, eyes scanning his surrounding thouroughly, a bead of sweat rolled down his back. Easy now, a flick of his wrist to the right and if he wriggled the pin right now....

The familiar clicking sound let him sigh in relief and he rose up quickly and entered the room.  
Dean was greeted with the weight of stale air and the smell of old paper. Small specks of dust floated through the air but vanished from sight when Dean shut the door and blocked out the light.

  
He was glad to have brought a flashlight along with him. The rows and rows of boxes, all black and stacked neatly above each other, promised long hours of digging and suddenly Dean started doubting his plan. Just what the hell was he doing here, going through this stuff like nobody's business, when he could be back home, kicking back another drink.   
And suddenly Dean didn't know if he wanted to do this anymore. Fuck Anna, fuck Cas, fuck the whole deal. He should just get out of there and move on with his life.

But he couldn't.   
At times it made him feel like another force pushing him forwards, always craving more and more of the theater, more information, more performances (more Cas, but he pushed that to the back of his mind, far, far away).  

Dean pulled out the first box, lifted its cover to find evidence and files, neatly layered like an expensive cake. He layed it down gently on the ground and sat down cross-legged. It was going to be a long night.

By the first box, Dean observed with great interest and an uneasy feeling in his stomach the amount of cases that had never been solved.By the 10th box, Dean had to lay the flashlight down and stripped off his jacket.   By the 15th box, Dean started feeling a little sick and the flashlight kept moving in his damp hand. By the 20th box, Dean felt his eyes straining in the darkness, only following the small light beam, word to word.   
He squinted then, hand wandering up to pinch the bridge of his nose and shake the feeling off. By the 23rd box, Dean started becoming aware of his breathing, the small puffs of hot air and he wondered if there was enough oxygen in the room. By the 24th box, Dean felt like suffocating in the darkness. By the 25th box, Dean found the picture of Abaddon staring back at him.

It made Dean feel uneasy, because yes, she wore the same face as her, the same full lips and long lashes and wavy hair, but it simply wasn't- as if, you had misplaced something in your kitchen but couldn't figure out just what exactly made you feel squirmy.  
She was smiling, lips closed, eyes warm.   
The name read Josephine Sands. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, Sands, he thought, doesn't that sound familiar?   
She had been the heiress to Sands Constructing, had been, if she hadn't vanished one day.

A psychological evaluation had been clipped in her file, from her brief stay at a mental institution. Apparently she had been a soft spoken girl, modest, almost shy and that was something Dean couldn't imagine, even if he wanted to.   
Abaddon was all harsh smiles and sultry words and to think that they might be related in any way was something beyond Dean's grasp.  
Josephine suffered from panic attacks, mental breakdowns, had to be restrained and sedated at times. Severe paranoia and delusions. And finally found unsuit to run the company after the sudden death of her father. Her bed was found empty on- the ink was smudged, Dean couldn't make out the numbers properly.

  
He furrowed his brows, dove into the next file but didn't recognize the man on the photograph, neither the next or the next or the next- no. That wasn't right, he had seen this one before, but he simply didn't remember when or where.   
Clean shaved, a nervous glint in his eyes, body clad in a well fitted suit. Chuck Shurley, it read, New York State comptroller. And that name rang a bell as well, Shurley, he thought, hadn't that been Naomi's surname?

Dean licked his lips, found his mouth dry and fear curl in his stomach. Without doubt he stumbled upon something important, a missing link. The problem was that he didn't understand its meaning.

  
He flipped through the next file with jittering hands, Bela Talbot, no, Abigail Chandler, daughter of rich, British immigrants who disappeared overnight and whose neighbors had seen dark bruises on her wrists and legs.

  
And Anna, oh Anna, her hair had already been short, unlike the previous women, but mischief was playing in her features and her face was streaked with dark colors, heavily made-up.   
Cases of vandalism, theft and disorderly conduct, a picture of her that couldn't possibly be that old, cigarette in between her fingers, a bandaged arm and a roaring laugh on her lips.  
Anabelle Milton, was her name.

But the list went on and on, the alter ego of every single person he'd met in TUMCONY glaring up at him from the pages with the grim force of their existance. Dean didn't know why it felt like having his breath punched out of his body, like the whole world freezing up and leaving him reeling, with ringing ears and watering eyes. The next file immediately caught Dean's eye, and he felt his heart dive.

James Novak, it read, but it wasn't, Dean thought bitterly, that's Castiel, that's Cas. It was his touseled hair, his hooded eyes and how dared he wear that stubble like him, like the awful imposter he was that couldn't get the perfect copy quite right.  
Dean's thumb traced the photo gently, trailing across the rise and fall of his cheekbones, and Dean's eyes wandered down the page but- no, this was wrong- He snapped the file shut, pushing back against the stinging in his eyes and the way the air caught in his throat, because, who the hell was James Novak?

So he bolted out of the room, files shifting in the box he had tucked away beneath his arm, and the precinct was silent.  
His eyes were trained on the floor.  
Married to Amelia Novak, née Everett, daughter Claire Novak, it had said, and Dean really shouldn't have felt such pain in his chest and he shouldn't have felt oddly betrayed either.   
Because James Novak was another man right? One that looked eerily similar to Cas, but a whole other human being with another life, other interests, even a...a family.

Dean couldn't picture Cas with a family or even a wife as a matter of fact. He suddenly wondered if Cas was good with kids.

Muscle memory told him to turn left, but the wall was blocking his way. Hadn't there been a junction at this point? Dean stopped. The precinct really was awfully, awfully silent. What time was it? Just how long had he been walking down this aisle?  
Something terrible sent cold shivers up and down his spine and when he turned around he saw nothing but the corridor. Grey walls and filthy floor curving towards infinity. Stretching all the way back, back, back.

  
The yawning corridor stretching away in front of and behind him, opening up to nothing but void. Could he see what was the end of the aisle? He squinted but saw squat. Dean breathed in slowly, air feeling familiarly charged and thick.  
He continued walking, sound of his steps ticking in his ears, but wasn't that crack in the wall the same one he had seen several minutes ago? His clammy fingers started twisting a lose thread of his suit, hand curling up to a fist and brushing the fabric. A bead of sweat ran down his neck, but it was cold, he noted, much colder than it had been in the tiny archive.

  
He turned around once again but the corridor stayed the same, eternal walls staring down on him.  
Dean heard something skitter beneath him, scraping the ground and when his gaze skirted the floor he thought he saw something move. Vermin? His eyes moved slower the next time he saw something moving in the corners of them and he caught a glimpse of something hairy and brown, a long tail swaying behind it before it disappeared out of sight.

  
A rat. Dean breathed in again, this wasn't unusual, they had to chase rodents out all the time but it still rubbed him the wrong way. Back in the trenches these fucking beasts had been everywhere, squeaking and rattling in empty food cans during the nights, creeping across every accessible surface, claws scampering over his uniform and teeth nibbling at his hair. But that wasn't the worse thing about them, not by far. Stolen food hadn't been enough for them.

  
Again, there was that flicker in the corner of his eye and this time, there were more of them, maybe five or six of them, no hold on. He stopped walking, paying proper attention to the animals and a few yards up in front of him a horde of the rats, twenty at least, were running over each other, all sharp noises and tearing into something.  
The scent of raw meat wafted to his nose and Dean felt ill.  
He wanted to turn around, walk back to where he came from, he didn't need to see it, not ever again. The rats were feasting.

  
Dean slowly walked up to the quivering mass, shoes scuffing against the hard ground, the squeaks and slurps of the rats growing louder with every inch he moved closer, but he had to know what they were eating. And if he didn't check, who would? If he hadn't given them the last honor back then during the war and stepped over his victims to move forwards, then he could at least bring himself to do it now.

  
Brown rats, the size of small cats, horribly bloated and mean looking. The stench was bestial by now and Dean did his best to suppress his gag reflex, when he saw the blood on the floor, violent streaks and chunks of flesh.  
The rats were skittering across his shoes now and he kicked them aside with a low snarl, shaking them off with every move, throat constricting with fear and disgust, when one of them tried clawing up his trousers. He couldn't make out the figure they were crawling over, snouts glistening red, fur slick with blood. And then they parted for him to see.

  
They always did eat the eyes first, didn't they? The sight made a yell catch in Dean's throat, nausea rolling over him in thick waves.

  
Castiel's skin was fallid where it wasn't covered in blood or stripped off, blue eyes clawed out and long gone leaving nothing but gaping holes behind. Head tilted back and mouth open, white bone flashing up, trenchcoat nothing but a rag. In his hand, Anna's pendant, pitch black, a reminder.  
Dean felt his knees buckle, hands shaking violently, why did it have to be him, he thought, why hadn't he been good enough to save him, because Cas was the person that counted.

  
Dean rasped his name again and again to himself, "Cas", he kept saying like a mantra or maybe a prayer. And his fingers twitched and wanted to reach out, grab his battered jacket and pull him out of the sea of vermin, to stitch him back together and make it all undone. But he didn't.  
Because this wasn't real, right? Cas couldn't be dead, it wasn't possible, not here, not now, not like this.

  
A rat slipped out of Castiel's yawning mouth and Dean choked. He stumbled backwards over the animals, world spinning with disbelief but he felt something tug at his trousers again and the scrape of sharp claws against his calf.    
He tried to push them back and they kept coming, pouring like a flood over him, fat and vicious, he could feel their sticky fur, thick with filth, the restless skitter and smooth tails and honestly, in that moment he couldn't give a shit whether they would tear him up alive, because Cas was dead and Anna was dead and all these men in the war, too, so wasn't it time for him to join them finally and cash in his reward?

  
But the rats vanished and Dean was left alone in the aisle close to the archive. It hadn't been real. Another trick, another hallucination. Dean couldn't help but notice that they were becoming more frequently lately.

  
There was a junction ahead of him, he had to turn right to get out of there. When he finally exited the precinct he felt drained, and the hand that was still clutching the box with the files was jittery. It had started to rain, while he had been in the precinct, a curtain of water, raindrops falling to the ground like bullets.  
Even inside of his apartment he could still hear it. Dean just wanted it to stop.    
  
Dean slipped off his jacket and hung it up. He then walked over to the coffe table and dropped down on the sofa. Tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He allowed himself one long sob and fought against the way the back of his eyelids were burning by wiping furiously at his eyes. Fuck messing with his head, he was going to drink himself to sleep tonight, that was for sure.

  
He ran his fingers through his hair, there was something wrong here and he didn't know what caused it. And if there was one thing Dean had to be sure of, only one, because these days there wasn't much left he could be sure about, then it was that all this- it needed to stop.  
"Dean?"  

  
His eyes snapped open upon hearing the voice, breath hitching, every hair on the nape of his neck standing up. Dean laughed.  
"You?", he asked quietly and he didn't even bother covering up the crack in his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
Castiel looked slightly bashful.

  
"I'm sorry if I startled you. You left the door open and I let myself in. I believe in our last conversation we had agreed to meet in your home to discuss further matters?" His eyes scanned the room. "It's nice", he said. The storm raged on outside and Dean felt relief slipping into his bones and he didn't care, if he couldn't remember having told him to come visit, or that it was four in the morning, it didn't matter, because what counted was that Cas was right there.

  
His eyes wandered from the top to the bottom and back, the same touseled hair of his memories, the same eyes, (eyes, he still had eyes), same lips, same stubble, same frown, the same silly get up and polished shoes.  
He smiled.  
"Yeah", Dean replied, "I guess."

  
His eyes were prickling again and Dean cursed and pressed his palms agains his eyesockets.  
"Dean, are you alright?"  
No, he thought, abso-fucking-lutely not. "M'good."  
Cas nodded. "If you'd like me to leave, I could-"  
"No!", Dean interjected, a bit too quickly perhaps, "I don't want you to- I mean. It's no big deal." He sucked in a breath. "Stay. Please."  
"Of course."

As if it was the most natural thing in the world to say. Dean's heart fluttered when he felt the couch dip besides him.  
They sat in silence next to each other, close enough for Dean to feel the warmth of Castiel's body. And really, he wanted nothing more than to reach over and pull him over by those lapels of his, to wrap his arms around him and feel the rise and fall of his chest against his, because Cas was alive.

Instead he simply brushed a lint off his shoulder, hand lingering for a moment on the dry trenchcoat. Castiel's gaze dropped to his touch and Dean moved his hand back to his side.  
"Lookin' good there, buddy." A lopsided smile played on Dean's lips but Castiel's face stayed unreadable.  
"Thank you", he said. A pause. "So do you."  
"What can I say? I'm one handsome son of a bitch even on the worst of days."    
He took another deep breath, left hand clawing into the couch, as if it would grant him magically some support. Dean was a grown man, for fuck's sake, he had been to the Great War, but here he was, about to break down sobbing like a toddler.  

  
"What happened?" Cas asked, voice laced with concern. Well, Dean thought, where should he fucking start?  
He cleared his throat. "Don't worry about it, man. It's...it's nothing." Just like the way nothing about the place he had been spending most of his time in made sense anymore. Nothing, except that he couldn't trust himself anymore, neither his senses nor his judgements. Except that he didn't know anymore what was real and what was some fucked up stuff his mind created for him or whether these two things were actually different. Except that he just saw his best friend (or was he? A friend, just a friend?) getting eaten by a bunch of rats. Except that he was pretty sure that he was going certifiably insane.

  
"Dean..."  
"Yeah, yeah, save it. Look, it's just...weird things have been happening, Cas. Things that are seriously out of my control. And I'm not sure how much longer I can tough this out."  
The last words came out more strangled than he intended to, he felt tears welling up in his eyes again. Pull yourself together, Winchester, he thought, your father would have expected you to behave like a man, not some whiny, little douchebag.  
He let out a shuddering breath and bent over, one arm propped up on his knee and holding his head aloft, fingers digging into his forehead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cas, face contorted into an expression of worry.

  
"Hasn't anyone told you that it's creepy to stare at other people like that?"  
Cas raised his eyebrows, eyes locked with Dean's. "A good friend of mine might have mentioned something like that a while ago. He does talk a lot though."  
Dean snorted and bumped Castiel's knee with his own.  "Shut up."  
"I wasn't complaining."

  
He turned his head to Cas, mere inches seperating them, blue eyes wide and sincere. The lamp was casting him in a soft light, gentle shadows playing on his face, along the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. And with every strand of hair backlighted Dean thought it looked a little bit like a halo.  
"Listen..." Dean felt Castiel's hand move in slow strokes down the small of his back, first hesitantly, as if he expected Dean to jolt and move away, then more assuredly, when Dean leaned into his touch with a small sigh.  
"You are not alone. Whatever might happen, I will stand by your side, don't you ever forget that. Have a little faith, Dean."

  
His hand wandered up to Dean's nape, the warm weight of his fingers running through Dean's hair and making him forget to breathe.  
Castiel smelled like the aftermath of a rainstorm and if Dean leaned just a bit forwards now, if he slipped his hand around Cas' waist and tugged him a little closer, just like that, maybe they would slot together like two pieces of a puzzle.

  
It was nothing but a chaste press of lips. Eyes fluttering shut, hands stilling and Dean sighed softly. Cas wanted to draw back, doubt flickering behind his eyes but Dean pulled him back, one hand tugging at the back of his head, lips crashing and Castiel tasted just as sweet as Dean imagined. And for the first time in years, he truly felt relief. 


	7. Chapter 7

Bright light was streaming through the window and Dean opened his eyes.  
Cas, he thought and jolted up, but he was gone, not having left a trace.  
Dean's heart sank.

  
But the thing, the weird thing, was, that Cas wasn't just another man and maybe that was what made it okay.  
He was his friend, he was his accomplice, the person who would believe and trust him.  
Storyteller extraordinaire, who could spin grand tales with nothing but his imagination and his mouth but didn't know that radios and movies were existing out there.  
And Dean thought that seeing dead people wasn't perhaps the craziest thing to happen to him.

  
He licked his lips, but the taste of him had already faded. Dean rubbed his face slowly and got up, staring at the rumpled bed.  
He was still fully clothed, having slept on top of the disheveled blanket, he wondered when (and how) he passed out, seeing as he definitely couldn't remember having closed his eyes.  
Upon briefly checking the other rooms, he concluded that Cas must have left already and Dean felt a pang of hurt.

  
Dean walked past the table and glanced briefly at the files on it, in the same disarray they had been when he flung them there.  
He bent down and picked up Cas', flipping it open and thumbing through the pages. Dean wondered briefly how he left the theater in the first place, didn't he mention that he wasn't allowed to? Why forbid the performers to leave, he thought, and stopped on the page describing Cas' family.  
Jimmy's. Whatever.  
Were they Brothers? Doppelgangers? It was the only thing he had that was connected to Cas.  
Dean brushed the photo of his family that had been attached there securely with a paper clip.

  
He sat down and brushed the files by side, revealing his latch keys. Dean must have dumped them on the table with all the other folders and it must have gotten buried by it.  He tucked them absentmindedly in his pocket.  
Dean noted that the Novaks were living here around New York as well, the address was right there on the paper. He pressed his lips to a thin line.  
Not that far away from here, actually. Rather close to the theater even, just outside the city in the suburbs.  
They were looking for Jimmy for over two years already and must never have realized.

   
He closed the file and looked at the clock, noticing with a startling realization that it was quarter past twelve already and that he wanted to eat lunch with Sam.  
Dean cursed and ran to the door, wanting to tear it open, but it was locked from the inside, bolts still perfectly in place.  
He groaned and unlocked it quickly, darting out of his apartment to get to the diner on time.  
  
  
  
And when he finally arrived his brother was already sitting at the table, tapping impatiently on the wood.  
"Hey, sorry I'm late," Dean said with a weak smile, as he slipped in his bench.  
"It's okay", Sam said.  
"You look like shit."  
He really did. Sam's eyes were red rimmed, and skin paler than the last time they met, which was really almost a month ago, Dean noted.  
"So do you", Sam said.  
Dean grinned.  
"But I have reason to. Man, these past days..." Dean shook his head.

  
Sam furrowed his brows.  
"Is it the job? You know, if you asked Bobby, I'm sure he'd give you some time off."  
"No, that's alright, I can handle work", Dean said with a dry mouth.  
"But weird things have been happening at TUMCONY and I've been digging into it. Let me tell you, Sammy, there's something seriously wrong going on there. A performer has vanished and the background of the owners is more than shady. Can you believe it, Gabriel and Bela..."

  
Sam closed his eyes and gnashed his teeth.  
"God, must you talk about this again? That's all you're raving about lately. It's just a vaudeville show, alright. There's no secret conspiracy going on there!"  
"Woah, calm down."  
Dean held up his hands in a placating gesture.  
"We can also talk about something else."  
Sam breathed heavily and Dean winced at the way his brother was holding himself, back slouched and rings under his eyes dark.  
 Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me lately. Must be the lack of sleep."  
"Maybe _you_ should take some time off instead."  
"I can't. There are lots of people relying on my help."  
"You can't run on forever, you need to rest."  
"No, you don't understand."  
Sam laughed bleakly.  
"Many of them are innocent. If I don't work on their cases, they will end up in jail. They have families, Dean. If a father of two children leaves them and his wife behind, what then?"

  
"You're not the only lawyer in New York."  
"But I'm the best."  
Dean watched him with an expression of absolute bewilderment, because he had never heard his brother talk like this before.

  
They were silent. Sam sipped on a glass of water he ordered. His hand was trembling slightly, but Dean chose to ignore it.  
"Still hanging out with Ruby?", he asked tentatively.  
Sam sighed immediately and propped his forehead on his hand.  
"Is that a yes?"  
"She's been busy lately."  
"Busy with what?"  
"Dean, can't we just meet once without arguing immediately? Please."  
"Since when are you that bitchy? Actually, no, I know since when you are."  
"Don't."  
"Since you started banging Ruby, that's when."

  
Sam lifted up his hands in exasperation.  
"I told you already, she's different now- and I'm not sure how often I'll have to repeat this to make you understand!"  
"You know", Dean said and shifted to the edge of the seat, pointing with his index finger at his brother, "something is not kosher here, not at all. And Ruby has got her sticky fingers in it."  
" I don't know what you're talking about."  
"Look at you, man." Dean gestured wildly at Sam. "You've never been in such a poor shape!"  
"My workload isn't exactly getting less", Sam snapped.  
"Work, work, work! It's always work, isn't it? I think there's something else behind it. Look, I don't know what Ruby is doing, hell, I don't think I even want to know what you two get up to. But I can guarantee you, that this woman is dangerous and she'll hurt you."

  
"God damn it, I'm sick of it, alright! I don't want to hear your explanations anymore. Ruby is helping me."  
And Dean's breath caught in his throat, because isn't that just what Ruby liked to do?  
"Sam", he said, mouth getting dry, "how exactly does she help?"  
He didn't reply, staring pointedly at his glass of water.

  
Dean hit his hand flat on the table, Sam flinched. The cutlery rattled and the other guests shot them a concerned look.  
"Answer me", he hissed.  
"She does what is necessary. You know, unlike you, Ruby actually cares, she understands me."  
" _I_ don't care?"

  
Dean laughed and leaned back into the seats, eyes prickling and ears heating and he thought of the times when Dad wouldn't come home for days and he would cradle his brother to sleep, always worried to death.  
"I care more about you than any single living person on this god damn world, Sammy", he said, voice trembling.  
"No, you really don't. If you cared about me, you'd let me go and make my own decisions."  
Dean felt like he was being strangled.

  
"Ruby has never lied to me, not once. She has only been good to me and she is absolutely incredible. That's something you'll have to accept eventually."  
He is in love with her, that fool, Dean thought, he really is.  
And this look passed on Sam's face again, that made his brother seem years older than he was, so tired and pained.  
Sam pushed the glass away from him and laughed grimly.  
"You know, sometimes you remind me of Dad."  
And Dean thought, so did Sam.

  
"Maybe I should go."  
"Yeah", Dean rasped.  
Sam got up and left the diner without saying another word, leaving Dean devastated behind.

  
And had he known what was going to happen, Dean might have gotten up and chased after Sam, yanked him by his sleeve back and punched him. And then maybe he would have hugged him until he couldn't breathe anymore.  
But Dean didn't, so he stayed sitting in the diner, choking on the pain and anger, fists clenched on the table and feeling like he was falling apart slowly.  
He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed his face.  
God damn it, Sammy, he thought, what have you gotten yourself into?

  
He finished the cup of coffee he had ordered and wanted to pay but Ellen patted his shoulder and told him to keep his damn money.  
Dean got into his car, swallowing his anger, bright and burning like a dying star.  
He turned the ignition and drove to the theater, he had things to do and his conversation with Sam wasn't going to change his plans, he had made his decision already early on this morning.  
  
Visiting Cas was odd this time, it made him nervous in a way he didn't quite understand. Dean stood in front of his door, 'Castiel' written fat on eye height, and seriously considered turning around and running out of the building. However Dean was also a professional and what had to be done, had to be done. He took a deep breath and tried to calm the flutter in his stomach, before he knocked the door and entered.

  
Castiel was sitting on the carpet, legs crossed over one another, eyes closed. Medidating, Cas called it, or as Dean put it 'wasting your time the most boring way possible'. He felt oddly intrusive then, unsure of whether to draw attention to himself or not. Castiel was still wearing the same clothes as always, of course he would, Dean thought with a smile, because apparently nobody had ever bothered telling him that this was the wrong attire for this situation. Layers of jackets were weighting down his shoulders, as he breathed in, chest rising slowly, clothes shifting and rustling around him. Dean suddenly realized that he had never seen Cas with less than two layers of clothes and suddenly wondered what he might look like in a simple shirt, short sleeves stretching across taut muscle. What the fabric might feel like on his flat palms, when he kissed him breathle-

  
"Hello, Dean."  
"Uh. Hey."   
Castiel cracked one eye open. "I'm glad to see you. Is something wrong? You seem a little agitated."  
"Yeah, no. It's, uhm. Nothing." Dean cleared his throat pointedly and glanced aside, calm down, he told himself, get a grip.  
"Just wanted to drop by." It wasn't exactly a lie: He did want to see him. However there was something else in the back of his mind that made him visit. Castiel hummed in response, closed his eyes again.

  
Dean sat down on the sofa, hesitation rolling uneasily in his mouth. The picture of Jimmy Novak was flashing behind his eye.  
"Cas, do you have any brothers?"

  
His brows furrowed briefly in surprise. "No, I don't have any siblings, not that I know of. Why?"  
"Oh, you know, I just had a talk with Sam and it got me thinking. That's all." It wasn't exactly a lie, their quarrel still flitting through his head.  
"How is he?"  
"Fine", Dean pressed out thinly.  
"Send him my regards then. He's welcome to visit anytime."  
Dean huffed a laugh. "I doubt it. He's swamped with work and..." He paused. "Other stuff."

  
He didn't need to make Cas deal with his other issues as well, the whole deal with TUMCONY was more than enough. The man turned his head to Dean, directing his full attention to him now.  
"I see. Being a lawyer must be a very taxing job."  
"You bet. Back then when he was still studying it was just the same." He shook his head at the memory, the letters he received then, the times Sammy came to visit him and told him all about the incredibly faculty, that huge library, Dean, there is just so much to learn there.  
"You must be very proud of him."  
Dean smiled. "Yeah. He earned it. You went to college, Cas?"

  
Castiel seemed to think carefully, mouth a thin line. "Yes", he said and sounded vaguely surprised by his own answer. "I think."

  
It made something in Dean's stomach twist and he thought, is there anything about your past you're absolutely certain of, Castiel?  
"Did you have a girl back then?", he finally asked with a half-hearted smirk, desperately trying to ignore the lump in his throat.  
Castiel cocked his head. "What do you mean?"  
"You know, someone to keep you warm at night. Maybe a...wife?" His gaze flickered to Cas and hoped he wouldn't catch on the game too quickly.  
"I've never been married before. Dean, why are you asking me these questions?"  
He folded his arms, tried to laugh it away. "I'm just curious."

  
"Are you trying to interrogate me?"  
"Dude, what? No, I mean..." Castiel raised an eyebrow.  
"I don't consider myself to be attracted to women, if that's what you're asking."  
Something in Dean's mind came to a screeching halt, leaving him reeling and open mouthed.  
"I hope this doesn't make you uncomfortable."

  
"No, no I- No. Aren't you afraid I'm going to tell?"  
"Of course not", Castiel said, almost offended so, eyes so full of earnesty that it made Dean draw in a sharp breath unvoluntarily. "I trust you."  
Dean nodded absentmindedly and cleared his throat again. This conversation wasn't going where he intended it to.  
"I kind of assumed anyway, uh, you know, after yesterday."

  
Cas squinted his eyes. "Yesterday?"  
"Yeah, I told you about the files on the performers I found, remember?"  
"Which files? What are you talking about?"  
"You popped into my apartment, I mentioned them and then you...and then we..." He gesticulated heavily and cleared his throat. Shuffled his feet. Dean looked desperately for words to describe in a heterosexual way that he still remembered the way Cas stuck his tongue in his mouth and the heat of his hands when he was feeling him up.  
"You know."  
"Dean, this is getting silly."  
"Don't make me say it, you know what I mean." He licked his lips and hoped that Cas didn't notice the way his face was heating up.  
"I have never been in your apartment."

  
According to Dean, there were two possibilities of how the kiss happened: The first one was that he had dreamed everything up. The second one was that Cas suffered from amnesia. He wasn't sure which option was more disconcerting.

  
Dean walked over to the grammophone that was standing silently on a dresser, a nice model, with dark wood and shining metal.  
Cas has always been incredibly cagy about his past, Dean noticed. Never telling definitive facts, always half-truths. And for one terrible moment, he wondered if he knew more than he let on. Dean glanced over his shoulder at Cas, who was now sitting idly on the sofa, watching Dean wander around. Castiel wasn't stupid, he could play dumb, if he wanted to. But did he? If Dean couldn't even trust Cas, then just who was left?   

  
"Hey", he said instead, "Do you ever use this?"  
Castiel furrowed his eyebrows at the sudden change of topic at which Dean shrugged his shoulders and hoped that he would just go with it. "Sorry to burst your bubble, buddy, but gramophones are more than fancy paperweights."  
"I haven't thought about this possible application yet, but I'll consider it the next time."

  
 Dean chuckled and his gaze fell on the few records he had seen earlier on the shelf. He reached up, slowly plucking them from their seat. Dean grimaced almost instantly at the titles.  
"Classical music? Really?", he said and held the envelope above his head for Cas to see.  
"Is there something wrong with that?"  
Dean shook his head, he had always known that Cas was different, but this was a whole new level of it.

  
"Don't you have anything that doesn't scream 'boring'?" Dean sighed and flipped through the disks. "Something that doesn't make me feel like dying from old age. How about dance music?"  
 Castiel seemed to think for a moment, then walked over to Dean and thumbed through the envelopes, sleeve brushing Dean's hand.  
"Here", he finally said and pulled the record out with a glare, "dance music."

Cas set it on the gramophone and started it, the music stuttering to life, as the disk began turning. It was a thin tune on the piano, melody rising and falling gently, like waves of water in the breeze.  
"Well, I'd like to see you shuffle to that", Dean said with a grin.  
Cas looked almost bashful.  
"I can't dance."  
"Seriously?"  
"Yes. Anna tried to teach me once but she gave up rather quickly."

  
Dean blinked. He had learned to waltz at an early age already, the proper gentlemen dance, Dad had told him, respectable and necessary to move through social circles. And then, just like that on the whim of a moment he blurted: "I can teach you." He immediately cursed his too quick tongue. "I mean, uh- only, if you'd like to."  
Cas stared at him with a dumbfounded expression, mouth slightly agape. Then he nodded.  
"Of course."  
Dean shuffled closer and cleared his throat, heart thumping in his chest.

  
"You've got to put your left hand on my shoulder, like this- yeah." Dean felt the weight of Cas' hand resting against the fabric and swallowed heavily.    
"You seem nervous." Hot breath puffing down his face. Dean yelped a laugh, mouth going dry.  
"I guess I can't help it." He gently placed his right hand on Cas' side, palms pressing the fabric of his trenchcoat against the solid mass of his torso, warmth slowly seeping through his fingers and did he imagine it or did Castiel suck in a breath a little too quickly?  
"Now move your right arm up-" Dean fumbled for Castiel's hand and took hold of it, thumb brushing against soft skin and he raised their linked hands to his shoulders' level, Cas' gaze following the movement hotly.  
"Ellbows out."  
"Won't this be uncomfortable on the long run?"  
"Dude, you're not going to waltz forever."

He lifted his hand from Castiel's ribs and flicked his ellbows. "Up they go."  
And the music continued as Dean explained gruffly how Cas was supposed to move, the whole step back, right, forwards, left affair and Castiel watched him and listened with stern nods.  
"And you're doing the lead?", he asked.  
"Yeah."  
"We're both men. Why do you get to lead?"  
"Because shut up, that's why."

  
Castiel rolled his eyes, actually rolled his eyes at that and Dean chuckled and he thought, if he would move his head forwards just a bit, their foreheads would bump together.  
Then they started moving and despite Dean being a little rusty, he soon realized why Anna had given up. Castiel was a horrible dancer, all hesitant feet and terrible posture, grip on his hand too tight, and eyes flickering nervously to the ground.  
"I'm sorry", he kept saying, whenever he stepped on Dean's feet, "I'm no good at dancing." He smiled softly and Dean's breath caught in his throat.  
"It's alright", he rasped and ignored the burn in his feet.

  
But Castiel got better, steps with more confidence and his body started moving naturally with the tune, one, two, three, one, two three.    
Shoes scraping the floor, the rustle of fabric besides the tune of the waltz, breaths too heavy for this level of movement. Dean spun Cas around, once, twice, moving in circles and circles, everything turning and blurring except startlingly blue eyes, thick eyelashes and soft lips. 

  
"So, what do you think?", Dean asked.  
Feet moving mechanically by now and Dean felt the soothing rise and fall of Cas' chest beneath his hand. He wriggled his fingers slightly, smoothing out the fabric beneath his palm, Castiel leaning ever so slightly into his touch.  
"It's nice", Cas finally said, head tilted slightly and eyes sparkling with contentment, smooth hairstrands falling over his forehead and Dean wanted to brush them away, to trace his skin and briefly, for a split second, he wondered, what it would taste like.    
"I appreciate your patience." Voice low and and solemn, making something hot pool in the bottom of Dean's stomach, hair at the back of his neck standing up at his shuddering breath.  
The record stopped and they stilled. Feet planted to the ground, bodies inches away from each other.

  
Dean hesitated. "How do I know that you're real?"  
"You don't."  
It was enough of an answer for him.  
Castiel curled his hand on Dean's shoulder, fingers brushing his neck, like an electric shock, enough for him to forget to breathe for a moment. And this was it, he thought. This wasn't like the last time, back in his apartment, a mere hallucination. This was his Castiel, the man with the inverted tie and his silly trenchcoat, the scruff and unruly hair with a voice like the rumble of thunder. Castiel, Cas, the storyteller who listened and understood. And he was standing right in front of him with dark eyes  on his lips, mouth parted and if Dean leaned in right now. If Dean leaned in right now, in that tiny, perfect, eternal moment.  
What would happen this time?  
  
  
  
  
Dean pulled away abruptly, letting go off Castiel and staggering backwards.  
"I- uh", he said, "I should. Go, maybe."  
"Oh", Castiel said. And he looked so damn heartbroken that it made him ache, eyes cast to the floor in confusion and mouth a thin frown. "Okay."  
 And Dean bolted out of the room, cursing himself and clawing at the tight feeling in his chest.  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
His police uniform was lying in the back of his closet, neatly folded. Bobby had told him to keep it.  
Dean smiled and slipped it on, cool, navy fabric brushing his body. He fixed the high collar, straightened the golden buttons. Put on his hat.  
And when he saw himself in the mirror, he felt for the first time in weeks back in control.

  
Of course it was illegal for him to pose as a detective, but if he wanted to find out more about TUMCONY, about Cas, he had to talk with Amelia Novak.  
Dean drove past the theater, down the street. Waiting in the traffic, tapping on his dashboard, thoughts racing.  
First doubts were popping up, what if she asks for his shield, what if she refuses to talk about it, what if the address is false.  
Dean banished the thoughts and hit the gas pedal.

  
He left the crowded the city center and entered the suburbs, thousands of identical houses rushing past him.  
So this, Dean thought, was where Castiel stems from.  
This used to be his home, his life, white picket fence with wife and kids and Dean wasn't sure if he could wrap his head around this new discovery.  
He stopped the car outside of one building in particular and if he hadn't seen its house number, he would never have found the residence of the Novaks.  
He got out, and walked the steps up to the front porch.  
It was a nice house, Dean thought, proper and peaceful.

  
There was this feeling of foreboding right beneath his skin again. There was something big going on here, he knew that, and every single piece of information suddenly appeared incredibly relevant to him. And yet, he was no step closer to the solution than at the beginning, nothing quite adding up. As if he was missing something terribly important.

  
He rang the doorbell and there was some rustling inside of the house.  
"One moment, please!"  
The door opened and a young girl was standing in the frame, no older than thirteen.  
Dean recognized her, Claire Novak, Castiel's, Jimmy's, Dean corrected himself quickly, daughter.  
Her hair was blond and her eyes a pale blue that made Dean's chest ache.  
She smiled and said: "Hello, officer."  
Her nose crinkled the same way Cas' did.

  
"Hey, uh. Do you mind to you get your mom here?"  
"Why, is there a problem, officer?"  
"Claire, who are you talking to?"  
A woman joined the girl. She was surprisingly young, the only thing speaking of her age were fine lines along her forehead and around her eyes. Dean smiled at the clear family resemblance, the same hair, the same face.  
She stroked the head of her daughter and nudged her behind her.  
"Hello, Amelia Novak. Can I help you?"

  
"Detective Winchester. I'm here to talk about the disappearance of your", Dean's breath hitched, "husband."  
Her face darkened instantly, corners of her lips dropping.  
She bent down to her daughter and said: "Claire, dear. Why don't you go up to your room and read something?"  
The girl groaned.  
"Mom, come on, I'm old enough. I can handle this."  
"Go up to your room."  
Her daughter rolled her eyes and left.

  
"I thought the police has dropped the case", Amelia said when Claire wasn't in sight anymore.  
"We're opening it again, ma'am."  
She stared at him incredulously.  
"Why? Has there been anything new? Did you find anything?"  
"Can I come in?"  
She blinked and shook her head dazedly.  
"Yes, of course, please, feel at home."

  
Dean crossed the threshold, took off his hat and followed her into the living room, shoes clicking on the wooden floor.  
It was tastefully decorated and kept neat and tidy, that much Dean could see.  
Shelves of books, a sofa, broad windows.  
Only the walls seemed oddly barren, as if something had been removed not long ago.  
A picture or two would do good, Dean thought.

  
"Please, sit down", she said and gestured towards a large dining table in the middle of the room, dark and polished.  
A lamp dangled above it.  
"Do you want anything to drink?"  
"No, thanks."  
She nodded and looked at him in anticipation.  
Dean cleared his throat.  
"We are currently reworking the files and it would help our investigations, if you could supply us with some information."  
"Look", she said with a sigh, "I told you already all I know. I-I don't know, if I want to do this again. Claire and I, we've just..."  
She trailed off.

  
"I can understand your discomfort, but if you could just tell me all you can remember."  
Amelia glanced aside.  
"We were- we moved from Pontiac, Illinois down here because Jimmy, sorry, James, got a job transfer to New York, he was a salesman."  
Dean nodded and pulled out a writing pad, started to make notes.  
"We were a normal family, really, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. And one day, I woke up without him on my side. His coat and his shoes were gone. But that's it. He didn't take a suitcase, nothing."

  
"Did he behave out of the ordinary before having left ?"  
"Not really. I mean, he did come home a bit late at times. But that was because of his work and the occasions he went to variety shows and the movies. But who doesn't?  
Dean rolled the pen between his fingers and tapped briskly against the paper.  
"Do you know which theaters he visited?"  
"He was going to a few, I think. He took us to one of them once, I can remember it quite well, still showing vaudeville shows. It was a bit shabby I must say, but the performers were so charming."  
She laughed.  
"Actually, I think he frequented it the most from all the theaters. He even took a few pictures, he loved his camera."  
"Could I see them?"

  
She nodded and went to one of the book shelves from which she pulled out a thick file that appeared to be a photo album.  
When Amelia put it on the table, Dean noticed that it was well worn, the binding slightly scratched and the corners bended.  
She flipped it open and thumbed past pages upon pages of family pictures. Black and white, paper a bit crinkled.  
It was impossible to deny by now that the depicted man was Cas, the similarity almost uncanny.

  
There were pictures of their wedding, Jimmy smiling broadly into the camera, a small flower tucked in his breast pocket with Amelia in his arm, clad in a stunning dress.  
Dean swallowed hard.  
To him it always seemed that Castiel's life had started in TUMCONY and that it was impossible, unthinkable even, that he lead a life before it.  
He started thinking about Cas as a schoolboy, as a child. What were his parents like? Where did he study? Did he have a lot of friends, back then? Who was his first love?

  
A picture of Amelia, pregnant with Claire. A picture of them in front of their new home, him kissing her chastely on her cheek.  
Baby pictures of their daughter. A photo of Jimmy asleep on the sofa, his child peaceful in his arms, a candid shot.    
Amelia turned the pages quicker than necessary and Dean thought he could see her eyes glistening in the sunlight.  
"There", she suddenly said and pointed on a row of pictures.

  
Dean actually had to do a double take, because he couldn't believe what he saw.  
Jimmy was standing next to a young woman, long hair pinned up, lithe body, brilliant smile. Anna, in a long and cloaking dress, a large, artful hat perching atop of her head.  
Dean's gaze wandered downwards and he saw a picture of Abaddon, seductive as ever, whip in mid air. The only thing that had changed about her were her costume and haircut.  
Several other people he didn't know, but remembered from the files he had browsed in Bobby's office. What was that one's name? Turley? Sherry? He was sure his first name started with a "C" though.  
A picture of Crowley, showing Benny something on a piece of paper.  
Dean licked his lips.

  
"Do you know the name of the theater?"  
"No, unfortunately. I have tried looking for it again, but to no avail. Very odd, actually, I could have sworn, I knew its location."  
"How often did he visit this establishment?"  
She raised her eyebrows thoughtfully.  
"I really have no idea, but it couldn't have been that often, he was very busy with his job. He even ended up missing a few dinners in the weeks before he disappeared, it was very unlike him. But you know how work is! Always gets in the way."

  
She laughed bitterly.  
"He hated his job, you know. He would come home every day, ranting about he would it was beneath him, that he was going to quit eventually."  
Dean couldn't imagine Cas hating his work and he recalled with which devotedness he stood on stage every day to tell his stories.

  
"Bad pay?", Dean smirked.  
"No, not at all. He earned a lot of money but it just wasn't enough. None of this", she gestured around,"was ever enough for him."  
Amelia closed her eyes and smiled fondly.

  
"James had crazy ambitions, always said that this wasn't his calling. He wanted to create and to improve, not sell. He was an artist, like I've never seen one before. Impulsive, so bright and enthusiastic, always on the move. His paintings, his movies later on ", she paused and reminisced,"they were stunning."

  
She breathed heavily and wiped her eye with her palm.  
"He would go on and on that God had chosen him for something special, to create and work in his will."  
She shook her head and propped it on her hand.  
"Jimmy was a devout Christian , you know. We'd always say grace before we ate, hold our hands. He read the bible every day, it was his haven."  
She wet her lips and swallowed hard.  
"He was a great man. So kind and passionate. He once found a stray cat that was almost dead, gaunt, sick and with bite wounds. And I told him to let it be, because it never could have survived, it was a pointless task. But Jimmy wouldn't give up."  
Her eyes softened and her voice cracked.  
"So, he took it home and nursed it back to health. Fed it cottage cheese every single day, cleaned its wounds. And it lived."  
She choked back a sob beneath her laughter and covered her eyes, fingers digging into her forehead.

  
"God, why am I even telling you this!"  
She gasped for air, a wet, strangled noise at the back of her throat that broke off in the end.    
"I'm sorry", Dean whispered.  
Amelia looked up at him, hair mussed and eyes red and wide open. And Dean thought that she was tragically beautiful.

  
"Do you believe in God, Mister Winchester?", she asked suddenly, quietly with a trembling voice, a thin smile stretched upon her face.  
"No", he said, "I don't."  
"Then that makes two of us. Because if God really existed, he wouldn't have taken my husband from me."   
Her voice was hard like steel, shaking and oozing grief and pain with every single word, pouring out from between clenched teeth.    
"He wouldn't have left me with my daughter like this, without job, in debt to pay all the private detectives I hired.  
He wouldn't have robbed Claire of her father. If God existed, he would have returned Jimmy to me."

  
She was weeping now, shaking back slouched over the table, tears dropping from behind her held up hand on the fading photographs. As if she wanted to beware her privacy, her last shred of dignity.  
Amelia sniffed.  
And he noticed, as she was clutching her head, that she was still wearing her wedding ring. A simple ribbon, golden and plain.  
She still mourned him, even after all this time and Dean thought that maybe Jimmy really was the one, and that this wasn't anything you could recover from.

  
So he reached over and stroked her trembling shoulder, she leaned into his touch.  
"Hang in there. We're going to do our best to find him, I promise."

  
A liar, he was a liar, because Jimmy had been found already but if he told her where he was and how he was, would it make anything better?  Because Cas may look like Jimmy, he thought, but it wasn't him.

  
Amelia stood up abruptly and strode curtly to the coffee table, next to her sofa. She plucked a tissue from a box on it and wiped her face hastily, arm braced on the couch.  
Then she straightened her back and turned around again, face red and eyes watery, smiling bravely at Dean.  
 "Sorry", she said, "this happens sometimes."

  
Dean stood up.  
"Thank you, ma'am, I think that's all we need."  
She nodded and escorted him to the door. Dean turned around on the threshold and took her hand.  
"You were a great help, we'll contact you, as soon as we've made progress."  
"Oh, I'm not sure if that's possible. We might move soon."  
Amelia put a hand on the door frame.  
"My brother, back in Pontiac has found a nice apartment. I've been thinking Claire and I..."  
"Yeah", Dean said quickly, "of course. I understand. You might want to leave your new phone number behind, so we have a way to reach you."  
"Sure, I will. I'm grateful for what you do, detective. It means a lot to me, that you're trying again."

  
She wrung her hands and thousands of thoughts were racing through Dean's head.  
This might be his last chance and if he didn't react now she might never get closure.  
She would go on, living without ever knowing what happened to her husband, whether he was alive or dead.  
Maybe marry again.  
And if she found out the truth, just what was Dean expecting? That they lovingly reunite and everything would work out for them?  
He considered this possibility for a moment and his chest clenched at the thought that Cas might be gone.  
If he left the theater behind, if he left Dean.

  
It was absolutely selfish and he knew it.  
"Goodbye", she said with a smile and closed the door.  
And he remembered the way Amelia looked at Dean, when she told him about Jimmy.  
God damn.

  
"Wait", he said in the last moment, hand moving in the gap between the door and the frame.  
Amelia pulled it open again and looked at him in confusion.  
"I", he started. Closed his eyes and breathed in heavily.  
"I haven't been completely honest to you."  
She stared at him, narrowing her eyes.  
"What do you mean?"  
Dean entered her house again and she closed the door behind him.  
"I think I know where your husband is."

  
An indeterminable look passed her face. Disbelief, happiness, anger, fear.  
She was silent, lips pressed to a hard line and eyes scrutinizing him.  
"I can take you to him."  
"Why didn't you say anything before? Why the whole interrogation?", panic creeping into her voice.  
"Please, Misses Novak", Dean said, "calm down."  
"You are not a policeman, am I right?", she said, slowly retreating.  
"I'm not in duty."  
"Show me your shield then."  
He couldn't and Amelia stumbled backwards.

  
"What do you want from me?"  
Dean lifted up his hands in a non offending manner.  
"I'm just looking for answers, ma'am."  
"Well, I don't have any."  
"I'm not here to harm you. I can drive you to your husband."  
"Why would you?"  
Dean laughed and shook his head.  
"I really have no fucking clue. Maybe I'm going crazy after all."

  
He tried to take a step towards her but she backed away immediately.  
"Stay back."  
"James Novak is a performer in TUMCONY, the theater he frequented when he still lived here. I have seen him."  
Amelia's mouth twitched in doubt, eyes not letting Dean out of sight.  
"How do you know it's him?"  
"I don't, not for sure. But it sure looks like him. Does Jimmy have a brother?"  
"No."  
"Didn't think so."

  
He approached her slowly.  
"Did you talk to him?", she asked quietly.  
"Yes. He's well."  
She nodded, glancing briefly aside. He took another step towards her.  
"Why is he there?", she asked softly. "Why doesn't he come back home?"  
"I don't know", Dean answered.  
"I thought you talked to him!", she shouted.  
"He is different now, Misses Novak."  
"Different?", she breathed.

  
Another step.  
"I can't take you backstage, but I can get you tickets for the show."  
Her eyes flickered briefly in confusion, as if she wasn't entirely able to process the situation.  
"Do you want to see him again?"  
"Yes", she whispered.  
"Come on, let's go then", Dean said.  
There was some noise above them, feet trampling down the stairs.  
Claire leaned over the railing and asked: "Can I come along, too?"  
"No", Amelia said immediately, voice steadying, "stay here."  
"Have you been listening the whole time?"  
The girl shrugged her shoulder nonchalantly. "As if that was a surprise."

  
Her mother looked at her sternly, but Dean grinned, because some things never change.  
Amelia strode to the clothes rack next to the door and grabbed her jacket.  
"We're going to be back soon."

  
"Mom, please, let me see him."  
She ran down the flight of stairs.  
Amelia sighed and turned around to her child, bent down to her eye level.  
"Claire, listen. I don't think it's such a good idea for you to come with me."  
"That's not fair", she yelled, "I have the same right to see him as you! You are not the only one who misses him!"  
She turned to Dean and begged: "Please. I just want to see my dad again."  
Amelia closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose and turned away.  
"Alright, get dressed."

  
They left soon thereafter and took place in the backseat of Dean's car.  
"Sir", the girl said, "if you aren't a police officer, how come are you wearing the uniform?"  
"Claire", her mother reprimanded immediately, "don't be so rude."  
Dean chuckled.  
"It's okay, it's just a bit of a long story."  
"Oh, I have time."  
"Well", Dean started and gripped the steering wheel tighter, "I'm actually a detective, but I'm taking some time off now."  
"Why?"  
"I just haven't been feeling that well lately."  
He shrugged his shoulders and looked at her through the rear mirror, blue eyes piercing him.  
"Are you sick?"  
"No, no. I've just had a hard time lately."  
"What happened?"  
"I'd rather not get into it."  
He smiled thinly.  
"Why, you killed somebody?" She leaned forwards, eyes wide.    
Dean paused.  
"You're too curious for your own good", he said wryly and laughed.  
"Yeah", she answered, "that's what my teachers tell me, too."  
"You good in school?"  
She pursed her lips and tilted her head slowly from one side to the other.  
"It's okay, I guess. Really boring though and there are idiots everywhere."  
"Well, school is very important for your future, you know. My brother always aced his tests and now he's a lawyer."  
Dean's chest swelled with pride. "Really successful, too."

  
It reminded him painfully of their quarrel earlier and Dean noted mentally that he would talk to Sam later and apologize.  
Their conversation soon died down to a rather uncomfortable silence, as the distance to the theater got smaller.  
They arrived soon at TUMCONY, the Novaks staring out of the windows with large eyes.

  
"Impressive, huh?", Dean said.  
"Wow", Amelia said and raised her eyebrows at the swirling board above the entrance, "it did change a bit from last time."  
Claire nodded, suddenly silenced.  
And as they payed for their tickets and entered, Dean couldn't help but notice them getting more nervous, Amelia fumbling at her wedding ring and Claire following her mother closely.

  
Understandable, he thought, after all they were going to get to see Jimmy again.  
He guided them to their seats and the show passed by as usual, performers entering and leaving the stage.  
They were excellent, of course, as excellent as always, and Amelia and her daughter were enthusiastic.  
But their smiles faded a bit too soon and their limbs were a bit too tense.

  
And when Abaddon entered the stage, Amelia whispered: "I've seen her before", and Dean nodded.  
"Where are the other performers? What happened to them?"  
"I don't know,"he said.  
Crowley announced the next performer and Castiel came on stage.

Amelia covered her mouth in shock, absolutely silent, eyes wide.  
"Oh my God", she whispered.  
"Is it him?"  
She nodded, her fingers still clutching her cheek, eyes tearing up.  
Cas started talking, the usual introduction and Amelia furrowed her eyebrows.  
"His voice...is a lot deeper", she breathed.  
She blinked away tears. Soft smile.  
"And he's still wearing that silly coat."  
Claire was staring at him with trembling shoulders.  
"Thank you", Amelia said.

  
When Castiel asked his question, "Please, do tell me what you wish to hear! Don't be shy!", Claire stood up.  
"Yeah, here. I would really like to hear why you left me and mom behind to join a vaudeville show, dad."  
A murmur went through the crowd. Castiel tilted his head and squinted his eyes. His gaze flickered briefly to Dean, who was completely taken aback by the situation.  
"Excuse me?"  
"Why would you rather be some kind of clown than come back home? What did we do to make you leave?", she shouted now, eyes glistening.

  
The audience seemed to get uneasier, noise level rising increasingly. Dean looked at Claire with a horrified expression and gestured her to sit down, but she didn't react, still standing upright with a high chin and a straight back.  
Amelia didn't move and Cas cleared his throat.

  
"I don't think I understand what you're referring to", he said with a low voice.  
"Stop it", she yelled, sobbed almost "stop playing dumb already! Mom-"  
She turned to Amelia, who was sitting stone still.  
All the eyes were fixed on her, as she slowly stood up, one hand still braced on the armrest.  
"James, is that you?"  
Cas looked again at him, eyes full of confusion and Dean felt like dying.  
"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about, you must be mistaken."  
"Please, Jimmy, it's me, Amelia! Amy", she said, hand clutching her chest.  
"Don't you remember?"  
Cas furrowed his eyebrows.  
"Remember what?"  
"We're married for twenty years already."  
She held out her hand and the ring shimmered in the spotlight.

  
The audience gasped.  
"This is our daughter, Claire", Amelia said and pulled the girl to her.  
Castiel shook his head slowly.  
"I've never seen you in my entire life before."  
Amelia looked away and breathed heavily.  
"We met for the first time in church and you told me", she said with a frightening conviction, "that our meeting was destiny."  
"I'm sorry."

  
Something broke in Amelia. She crumbled, as the man, whom she had known as her husband, ceased to exist for her in that moment.    
And Dean regretted having brought her there.  
Security men entered the hall, squeezing past the audience and making their way to the Novaks.  
"Please, try to remember", she begged and it was the last thing Dean heard her utter.

  
One of the men grabbed Claire by her arm and she screamed, her mother immediately trying to help her- but she as well got pulled roughly from her seat.  
Dean jumped up and tried to follow them, but the security men were too fast, dragging Amelia and Claire away, and the spectators too many.  
"Get out of the way", he yelled and shoved them aside, but they were still in the way, absorbing the spectacle and staring hungrily at the scene.

  
They shouted for help, trying to cling on to the audience with hands and feet but they received nothing but shocked glances, some almost sympathetic.

  
Crowley entered the stage, pulled Castiel by side and told him something. The performer nodded in understanding and left, Crowley striding forwards with a bright grin and spreading his arms.  
"Ladies and Gentlemen", he announced and laughed, "how do you like this new form of storytelling, we've been trying out?"

  
Dean eventually made his way through the crowd, bursting out of the hall and entering the deserted lobby.  
His heart was racing and he whipped his head around quickly. He couldn't see the Novaks anywhere, but they couldn't have gotten far.  
He ran up to the main entrance, past the box office and scanned the crowded street. Nothing.  
Dean lifted his arms and ran his clammy fingers through his hair as fear settled itself in his stomach.

  
He entered the theater again and stormed backstage, head spinning to every direction in hopes to spot them.  
And while he couldn't find the Novaks, he found Naomi, who was evidently returning to her office.  
"Hello, Mister Winchester", she said, "I was just looking for you now."  
He paused.  
"You were the ones to bring Misses Novak and her daughter here?"  
"Yeah. Where are they?"  
She intertwined her fingers.  
"I expected already that you are looking for them. I've had a chat with them and the conflict has been resolved, they were simply emotionally compromised. We've escorted them directly out through the back door."  
"What, all in five, ten minutes?"  
"That's all I need. I'm rather efficient, you know."  
She smiled.

  
"Listen, woman, you can go choke on a bag of dicks for all I care. All I want to know is what really happened to the Novaks, because I know that you aren't telling me the goddamn truth."  
"I've told you already, they're on their way home. There is no need for your concern, Mister Winchester."

  
"Cut it out! I know about Anna, I know that you've got a dirty little secret going here. And I may have fallen for your fucking lies before, but this won't happen again a second time, that's for sure."  
"I don't know what you're talking about", she said sweetly, "but Amelia and Claire Novak have left TUMCONY safely."  
"What did you do to them, spit it out already, you bitch!"  
"I'd advise you to refrain yourself from calling me names."  
She was slightly shorter than him, skinny and frail. He could break her bones with ease.

  
"Dean."  
He spun around and watched Cas rapidly approach him.  
"Who were these women?"  
"God, Cas." Dean rubbed his forehead.  
"This whole thing is a fucking mess."

  
He turned around briefly but Naomi was gone already. Dean cursed silently under his breath.  
Then he took a step closer towards Cas, touched his sleeve lightly and whispered: "Can we do this in your room? You might want to sit down."  
Cas squinted his eyes and nodded slowly.

  
They then entered his room and sat down, Cas fixing Dean with a questioning look.  
"Her name is Amelia Novak", Dean sighed, "and she was probably telling the truth."  
Cas furrowed his eyebrows, elbow propped up on the arm rest of his sofa.  
"That's impossible, I neither married nor had children."

  
Dean laughed.  
"Like anything goes here by the law of logic, man. Look, the point is that I dug up some more stuff about the TUMCONY."  
He explained Cas about the files on the performers, their different names and different histories and the fact that all of them were missing.  
Castiel listened to Dean attentively, eyes hardening.

  
"So, you think that this Jimmy Novak is me?"  
"It sure looks like it. I'm not sure what is going on but it's definitely possible."  
"And it didn't occur to you to tell me about this before you brought them here?"  
Cas looked away briefly in disbelief, then turned back to Dean.  
"How could you do this?"  
Dean swallowed.  
"Look, Cas, I had to react quickly..."  
"I don't think you understand what implications this has."  
Castiel stood up, face unreadable, crowding Dean's personal space within seconds.  
"Do you realize, what this means for me, Dean?"  
Silence. They were inches away from another and Dean could feel Cas' breath puffing on his face, feeling the heat of his body radiating off him.

  
"If that woman was honest about her husband, if there is proof for her statements, then she and her family must be the supreme truth."  
Cold blue eyes, pinning Dean to his position.  
"And by extension, everything I have experienced is false, because there are no two of us. So if Jimmy's existence is the truth, then mine is a lie.", he snarled.  
"Cas..."  
"There is no Castiel, it has always been James, right?"  
"You're not Jimmy Novak."  
"Then who am I?"

  
"God damn it, listen to me."  
Dean gripped his shoulders.  
"Your name is Castiel. You're completely out of touch with the outside world and have no clue about socially appropriate behavior. You're working in the TUMCONY,  which is a fucking weird place and there is something seriously wrong here, but I don't need to tell you that. You're a storyteller. You're my friend. These are facts and there's nothing you can do about that. Jimmy Novak was some dude from Illinois, who went missing at some point, was married and had a kid. That's another fact. And maybe you two are linked in a way, that doesn't make entirely sense, but that doesn't matter, because right now? You're Cas, and that's all that counts."

  
Cas faltered.  
"I need some time. Please leave."  
Dean closed his eyes and nodded, then left the room.

  
So he left the theater and got into his car.  
Drove out of the city, once more, into the endless rows of houses of the suburban jungle, in hopes of finding Amelia and Claire.  
He went to the house of the Novaks, still pristine and beautiful and rang the doorbell but nobody opened.  
Upon glancing through the windows he couldn't find anybody.

  
Dean got back into the car and waited idly until it got dark, uneasiness and fear clogging up his throat and twisting in his bowels.  
But even when the windows of the other houses lit up in the dusk with a bright light, the Novaks' house stayed dark and void.  
A black hole, amidst the endless row of glowing stars.  
His feeling told him that this was the way it was going to stay and Dean drove back home.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


	8. Chapter 8

The alcohol burned his throat but as long as it distracted him from his thoughts he didn't care. He should never have taken the Novaks to the theater, he should have left them the fuck out of it instead of dragging them right back into the mess, ripping open the wounds and picking at their scabs, when he should have let them go.

  
If he hadn't brought them to TUMCONY, Cas wouldn't be hurt and they'd be alive.  
If he hadn't started researching, he would never have found out about their existance.  
And if he hadn't gone to the show... Dean took another swig from the bottle.

  
Sometimes he thought, that things would be a lot easier, had he died in the war. Sam would have mourned him for sure, crying like back when they were kids and he got lost in the park all by himself. And Bobby would spend his time at the Harvelles' and all of them would nurse their grief with the sting of hooch. But that'd be it. They'd get over it, they'd continue their lives and Dean wouldn't have to sit there, with the leaden feeling of guilt pressing down on his chest.

  
"You are a killer!", Claire shouted, voice breaking from where she stood next to Dean.  
"I know", he said quietly.  
Eyes puffy and bloodshot from crying, dress bloodstained and ragged. Her face was the most gruesome thing Dean had ever seen. Most of the flesh was gone, like someone had ripped off the skin, burnt and peeling strips, some places looked like acid had eaten its way to the bone. She yelled again, the sound raw and chaotic, like a million voices echoing off the walls, whispering and hissing accusations and truths.  
"You knew, you knew! Why did you lead us into this trap, why didn't you save us?" A thin "Daddy, where are you?", ringing sharply through the cacophony.  
"I'm sorry", Dean said.  
"Liar!", Amelia shrieked, booming voice cutting through the room, "Why are you lying to us? Haven't you hurt us enough?"  
"I'm sorry", Dean repeated, "I'm so, so sorry."  
Dean forced himself to listen to their cries, even as they diminished into soft whimpering, jumbled words bouncing in his skull, because he deserved it, he deserved every single bit of this.  
  
He got up to use the bathroom, but when he passed the threshold he tripped on something heavy, nearly tumbling to the ground.  
Dean thought it was due to his intoxication, but when he looked down he found the body of a man lying rigidly at his feet. Blood seeping into the floor, the U.S. military uniform barely recognizable beneath a thick layer of mud and grime. Head angled upwards, glazed eyes flickering from the left to the right. Gashes slowly appearing across his chest.  
"Mercy, please, stop, I've got a family back home waitin' for me! Why are you hurting me? I'll do anythin' you want, please just stop! Why are you killing your own comrades?"  
Dean watched, body frozen in spot, he wanted to kneel down and help but instead his hands were pressed to his sides, cold flashes running down his spine. He remembered the man, he was in the same trench as him. They had shared their food cans.

  
There was a leaden weight in his right hand and Dean saw a flash of cold metal, the brown sleeve of his uniform and suddenly he was back, behind the pile of debris in no man's land, carving up the skin of the man, one steady hand clamped over his mouth, pinning him to the ground, bayonet slicing away at his skin. Heart pounding and sweat dripping off his forehead, but he wouldn't fucking shut up, he kept talking and crying so Dean pressed down on him until finally the movements of the man stilled. And Dean had smiled, a private moment just for him, because it made him feel powerful back then, that he could survive and return home, and maybe that was the moment when names turned into numbers for him.  
It was just shoot, reload, repeat, since this was nothing more than a hunt and later on he reported that they were attacked by enemy soldiers, that his comrade got brutally murdered by those damn Krauts.  
To this day, Dean didn't remember the name of that man.

  
But now, he was still alive somehow, hands clinging to Dean's leg and tugging furiously. Panic flared up brightly in his chest, he shook his leg in an attempt to rid himself of the grip. The man kept clawing on. New slashes appeared and he cried out for his mother.  
"Dean! Lord, please, don't do this, man, I beg you, please..." He was crying like a kid now, tears leaving clean streaks down his dirty face.  
The gun was still heavy in his hand but he couldn't bring himself to raise it, not again, never again, or else he was going to shatter and the weapon fell to the floor, breaking into tiny shards, the alcohol running across the ground. The bottle had slipped out his hand and the man was gone.

  
Dean propped a hand up on the wall, violently gasping for breath, he needed air, he had to get out of this apartment right now. He hurried and thus he missed the fact that the tag attached to Michael's dangling corpse, read 'Brace yourself, you're next' in crisp black letters.  
   
   
Dean hardly made it out of the house, legs shaking with every movement but he felt slightly better when the first gust of wind hit him in the face, biting cold slithering down his throat. His mind was just playing tricks on him. It isn't real, he told himself, right? But did that even matter anymore?

  
He joined the crowds, finding solace in the many people and drifted aimlessly from place to place. Maybe he should pay the Harvelles' a visit. Or perhaps he could drive up to Sam's but he remembered their last conversation and Dean quickly jossed the idea.

  
Instead he found himself wandering into the park, earth crunching beneath his boots, lanterns erected along the cobbled stones. The cold, fresh air slapped his face and Dean could, for a moment, notice just how fucking drunk he was. But that was nothing new, and as soon as he adjusted to the coldness, the sudden awareness was gone.

  
Pinpricks of light showed him the way through the darkness, three feet at a time, eyes following the jittering shadows on the ground, before they were claimed by the void. He heard people muttering, the occational neighs of horses. But he kept on walking, not sure why and not sure where to- he just wanted to get away, get away and ease his mind. Because, if he walked away, maybe his thoughts would too, and if the coldness continued burning his face, maybe it would seep through his skin and scorch his mind.  
Maybe he could finally forget about how he fucked up and maybe he could bleach the image of Castiel's horrified face out of his mind.

It was silent, only a few birds were tweeting in the distance.  
Dean looked up but he didn‘t remember this part of the park. The trees were different, the benches were gone. Probably one of the lesser visited parts.  
Ten feet ahead of him he saw Ruby. Her coat seemed to be new and awfully expensive, mink, maybe, hair artfully done, lips painted dark. Without doubt she was going to see someone and Dean wondered what the hell she was doing out here all on her own.

  
The woman was walking away from him, she hadn't seen him yet and suddenly Dean decided to follow her. He didn't intend to harm or scare her, nothing like that.  
But this was his chance to see whether she was telling him the truth back at the diner. Ruby was all calculated cunning, she didn't just say or do things on a whim. People like her, they didn't wander into parks for a midnight stroll, they had a plan and whether it involved shady business was up to Dean to find out. Because, if there was one thing Ruby seemed to have, then it was answers.  
She was hurrying and Dean found it hard to keep up with her.   
   
   
She kept walking, deeper and deeper into the park, where the trees were untended and weed was growing freely. Always taking sharp turns and nearly slipping out of his line of sight- Dean wondered whether it was humanly possible to be so fast on heels.

  
He made sure to pull his coat closer, his hat casting long shadows on his face. Always moving just far enough to make out the shape of her body, thick branches and scrubs obscuring both of them from each other.

  
Then he heard a howl: Long and feral, echoing in the distance, and Dean froze on the spot. Hand reaching immediately to brush his gun- whatever made this noise, sure as hell wasn't going to get close to him. Ruby, he remembered, but when he turned his head back to where she had stood earlier, she was gone.

  
Dean cursed quietly, he shouldn't have gotten distracted so easily. He rubbed his face, teeth gritted, that was just like him, Dean Winchester: Master of fuck ups.  
But the howl returned alongside a low growl, reverberating from the trees, and panic rushed through Dean's body, fear flashing up behind his eyes. This wasn't the usual howl of dogs, and it reminded him painfully of when a mad one nearly tore him apart.  
He was still now, hand gripping his gun mechanically, eyes scanning his surrounding slowly. The sound of blood rushing through his veins, heart thumping against his chest. Rustle of leaves, cracks of twigs.  
The light of the lanterns flickered.

  
A beast was standing five feet away from Dean, right in the middle of the path. He thought it did look a little like a dog, square jaw and holey ears, muscles stretched tightly around its body, barely covered with shaggy fur, and a bushy tail drooping to the floor. But its proportions were all off, as if someone who had never seen the animal before had tried to create an own rendition of it.  
It was grotesque, back curved to a lazy arc and long, long legs, body stretching past the laterns. On all fours it stood there, head low, eyes staring at Dean, all seven of them: Four on it forehead, one on its snout and pair where they actually belonged, deeply set into its malformed skull. They were colored differently, one was shining a bright green, oddly human in its quality, another purple. One of them was a dull red, reflections swallowed by the color.

  
Dean raised his gun, breath caught in his throat and fear seizing up his body. Whatever this was, it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be existing.  
The dog grinned, actually fucking grinned, corners of his maw drawing up and flashing a row of utterly human teeth.  
Dean's mind blanked with terror and he pulled the trigger.  The dog continued staring without a sign that the bullet ever entered its body or was even, in fact, fired. No recoil, no entrance wound, no blood. Just a plate of matted hair.

  
"What the fuck-"  
"Follow me", the animal announced, voice like fingers scratching slowly along a window, voice like an avalanche.  
"Like hell I will." Dean's face was grim, eyes steelen, carefully pushing his fear back. His gun was still pointed at the animal.  
"You can't hurt me. I won't hurt you."  
Dean pressed his lips to a thin line. "What are you."  
It blinked its eyes completely out of synch. "I've been sent to escort you."  
"Did I fucking stutter? I asked you what the hell you are."  
The grin didn't waver, still plastered to its face.  
"I am a hound. Follow me. Your path is being prepared."

  
Dean took another deep breath. It looked like it was able to rip him apart with just the turn of his head. "Who sends you?"  
"My master." Silence. "Follow me", it repeated. This time it turned around, trotting down the path along the sparse lanterns. Dean slowly lowered his gun, watching the talking dog warily. This was his chance, he could turn around and get the fuck out of there- the chances for him to take down the creature seemed low.  
On the other hand he could see where it would lead him. Because really, what did he have to lose?

And a small voice in the back of his head whispered, Sammy, muttered, Cas. But he knew, that while he needed them, they didn't need him, because all he did was to hurt and destroy. But perhaps it was time to accept that.  
He followed the dog, first cautiously from afar, then slowly moving closer to it. He had never liked dogs.

  
Its fur was dark and coarse, thick, tangled strands with leaves and branches stuck inside. For a moment Dean caught a glimpse of something that looked too much like skin, like a human hand, but the hair covered it before he had a chance to get a closer look.  
"Where are you...uh...taking me?" It was hard to keep step with the beast, Dean nearly had to jog to keep up with it.  
"You should know."

  
They trotted in silence next to each other, the overwhelming feeling of dread slowly building up in Dean. Soft ground beneath his feet. The rustle of clothes and the heavy pants of the animal. The hound smelled like rot  and death.  
But eventually the trees parted and suddenly they stood in front of TUMCONY. Dean's heart ached with mixed emotions, feelings of joy at finally seeing something familiar, his anchor in the past few months. But the knowledge of what was happening behind the scene made his stomach churn. And to be taken here by a giant, seven-eyed beast wasn't exactely comforting. 

The theatre was just the way he knew it, same doors, same billboards: Only the colors seemed odd, inverted maybe, streaks of paint that seemed out of place. Almost like a sort of parody, a mock of the real thing.  
"I have brought the mortal. He is ready, master."  
And the hound vanished. Not creepy at all.  
  
A harsh wind rang across the street, the coldness burning into Dean'Slungs. He was pulling his coat closer, when he started hearing a sloshing sound, first quiet but then slowly rising to a roaring crescendo. The doors opened with a low screech and a wave of red spilled out, sweeping across the ground and sloshing over his shoes; the stench bestial, like death and terror, flies buzzing in his ears. A red carpet, rolled out just for him  
Then the music started up, sudden and eery, the sound of an organ, maybe, long screeches and dissonant tune.  
His muscles clenched, when he saw a dark figure walking towards him but when he saw Meg, his body tensed up all over again.

   
"Welcome, welcome!",she purred, bowed lowly, hair falling over her face, "Enter to see a spectacle completely different from any other! Enter, my dear, today it's free of charge."  
She smiled, maybe because her face had been rendered incapable of making any other expression. Her mouth was a gash across her face, literally reaching from one ear to the other, stretched open and held with stitches upon stitches. Her teeth were sharp like razor blades and her eyes were poor imitations. Dean stared at her, body twitching to move, but instead he was watching her expectantly.

  
"What are you waiting for?", she asked with a laugh, her body shaking and heaving, "I'm not getting younger anytime soon!"  
 Dean gritted his teeth and waded through the river of blood, but it retreated itself, rolling and sloshing into the back of the room.  
The doors slammed shut behind them, the bangs echoing off the walls. The air was thick, all musty smell and the metallic stench of blood. Dean heard the off tune melody of a piano, playing in the distance and when he entered the main hall, he was greeted with a screeching noise of static interference.

  
Then with a loud bang Bela and Balthazar appeared on stage, holding their hands up with white knuckles, as if their lives depended on it. Bela's neck was a mess, yellow and red mingling in a festering wound, spreading all the way down her chest, sequinned dress missing bits and pieces, legs multicolored with bruises and tangled hair falling across her eyes. She laughed loudly, ringing with pain and fear, but Balthazar tugged her by her arm to a large wooden box that had been standing on the stage. It seemed arbitrarily thrown together, nails connecting boards with strips of bloodied clothes, open holes on both ends. Suddenly Dean thought, it looked awfully like a coffin.

  
And tears were streaming down Bela's face, despair in her eyes but she smiled brightly, a slice of perfect white and twirled once in front of the audience, showing that her body was still relatively unharmed. Then Balthazar flipped the box open carefully, releasing a swarm of flies and a stench that made Dean gag violently. And Balthazar, oh God, Balthazar, his skin seemed to be falling of his flesh in thin strips, one hand almost devoid of anything but blinding bone, as if an animal had gnawed it clean in one place and then lost interest.

  
He helped Bela lie down in the box, one hand clutching hers, the other around her waist as he slowly lowered her into it.  
Then he shut the lid, only Bela's head and feet peaking out. Dean knew this trick, they had presented it before already.  
Balthazar whipped out a rusty saw and Bela's laughter turned into cries.  
Dean wanted to, had to, get up, but his chair seemed to constrain him, wrapping itself like vines around his body and pressing down his chest.  
Then Balthazar started sawing, face turned to the audience and grin comically wide, as the blade broke through the wood, right above her midriff. Then the rip of flesh and the crack of bones, splintering and breaking. And Bela screamed and laughed, eyes wide and tongue lolling out of her mouth and Dean felt sick, closed his eyes.  
Blood began dripping underneath the box.  
And Balthazar walked over in long, gangly strides, and pushed the separated parts away from each other, all spine and meat and bones and wood.

  
Quickly a worried Balthazar flipped the lid open and flung his arms around her upper body tears in his eyes. Bela bend forward and tried to reach for her kicking legs. He supported her weight on one of his hip after he lifted her from the box. With a trembling hand he opened the other box. A set of panicking legs sprung out racing around ripped ligaments, muscles and tendons hanging out from the top.  
Bela‘s lower body lost a vertebrae. It rolled to Balthazar‘s feet. He picked it up, removed the dust and chased after the legs, Bela still in his arms. Their distress and panic was turning into a psychedelic grin. The tears were replaced by a cackling.

  
Dean was in a state of shock, his heart racing faster than it ever did.    
The magician managed to get hold of the legs, placing his partner gently and carefully on top of them. Like magic the to parts mended together.Bela smiled brightly, bowing to the applauding audience.  
    
She started heading to a table. Bela placed her old and a bit crumbled hat, top upside down, on the furniture.  
Then she placed an old washed out cloth over it. After murmuring some sort of incantation she pulled some squashed pigeons out of the hat. Their necks and wings broken they fell straight to the floor landing with a thud. Their bodies were flattened to the extreme causing their guts to spurt out. They were followed by dead bunnies who obviously had endured the same procedure.  
Their white coats were grimy and and no longer white. Bela stood in a pile of dead animals. She was smiling as she threw more and more critters from her hat.  
The crowd was cheering.  
   
They didn‘t look human anymore. The corner of their mouths ended at their temples their eyes were completely round and were ridiculously large.  
Their smiles were horrid, raw meat were caught in their mouldy teeth.   
They bowed one last time as the curtain fell shut.  
The broken notes of the piano went silent, the body was dumped on top of a pile next to the stage.  
   
   
“Now as our final act welcome our nightingale, the wonderful Miss Sangue!“, the speaker announced.  
The curtain rose one more time. A woman in a tattered red sparkling dress fell in to the spotlight; The fabric shone like a million rubies. Speaking of rubies, that face seemed familiar.  
Anger rose up in Dean as he realized, that in fact this woman was Ruby.

  
That lying snake didn‘t see him but he surly did. She began singing in a sweet voice, yet it sounded like the deadly venom in Dean‘s ears. It had the tune of a lullaby, but Dean felt anything like drowsiness.  
He felt loathing. The rows in front of him fell to sleep one by one. They had relaxed smiles on their faces, well all of their muscles seemed to be relaxed. To relaxed for Dean‘s taste. As the man in the seat next to him grew motionless he tried to shake him awake, yet failed.  
Dean couldn‘t understand a word that Ruby was singing, because it was in another, a very unfamiliar language. The sleeping crowd then got up. They seemed like marionettes as they slowly crawled onto the stage.  
Then the audience started dancing with each other. It looked surreal. As the song came to an end they got back to their seats and while Ruby sang her last note they opened their eyes, emotions blank except for a dreamy smile. The flickering lights turned on and the curtain shut.   
   
As he looked closely to the man sitting next to him, Dean saw that the man‘s head fell of his shoulders.  
As one head fell to the ground another one grew back where it belonged. It was and endless loop. And suddenly, as if that were a silent sign, the other vistors lost their heads too, and new ones grew back, until heads were rolling around the floor, commencing to a shrill, insane laughter that grew louder and louder.

  
His hands pressed to his ears to protect them from the noise Dean ran past them, he just wanted this nightmare to end. Dean got out of the building, but the laughter wouldn't stop, chased him as he ran down the streets, and he didn't know where he was heading, just away, quick, run. And after what felt like hours of running, Dean's legs got tired, they were trembling, he couldn't run anymore.  
His heart raced like the horses at a derby, his head started to spin and his legs gave way. He crashed to the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

Knock knock knock. Was someone trying to kick in his front door? Sluggish Dean tried opening his eyes, still too much asleep to grasp the concept of what was happening. He closed them again immediately, the light was definitely too bright. Maybe whoever was knocking would go away if he just ignored them.

  
“Mr. Winchester! Open the door or so help me god!” The powerful and very angry voice was the one of his Landlord, Missouri.  
Dean knew that woman way to well to know she wouldn’t go away. With a sour grunt Dean tried to get up, but choose to keep in a sitting position as he noticed his sense of balance wasn’t content with sudden movements. The room was turning.

  
Missouri was only seconds away from smashing his door. “DEAN WINCHESTER. I want my rent!”, she screamed.  
As if his head hadn’t hurt enough before she choose to wake up the whole neighborhood. Awesome. He definitely wanted all the people in this house to know that he, Dean Winchester, police detective, was unable to pay his monthly rent. Thanks, Missouri.

“I’m not home!”, he screamed back.  
There was a pause, but just as Dean was about to believe the miracle that Missouri had given up, she spoke again: “I want the money by noon tomorrow or I swear I’ll drag your drunk ass outa here myself!”  
She was trampling down the stairs. So much noise.

  
Waiting a few minutes until he was sure Missouri wouldn’t return and the house turned back in its silent and sleepy state, Dean made a second try to get up. It worked this time, though it was not less difficult than earlier. The world around him tried really bad to push him back to sleep.  
Finally standing on both feet, he looked around in shock. The room was a mess. A broken glass and a knocked over bottle of liquor, the rest of the alcohol producing an amber colored puddle on the ground, were placed close to where Dean had lied. He must have slept on the floor the whole night; his bed and the sheets were untouched.

Still, he couldn’t remember much of last night. What he knew was that he went home after, after…He remembered something with TUMCONY, or had it been a dream again? What he knew for sure though was that Cas hadn't been there, weird actually, because Cas was always in the theatre...

  
Cas. The picture Dean had made of him earlier, Cas all indifferent looking as he was always, was lying on the floor, just inches away from the puddle of alcohol. Dean usually kept it in his wallet like other people kept pictures of their family and loved ones in there. Because, truly, Cas was family. Hell, even more than that.  
But now the photograph of his loved one was nearly torn apart by a long crack, nearly ripping Cas’ face in two halves, making Dean’s gut feel queasy. A few stripes of cellotape later Cas almost looked normal again, and Dean felt content with his crafting skills.

Still, Cas picture wasn’t the only one that had been badly affected:  
Most of them were thrown down from his cupboard, the glass and frame broken. Dean picked one up; it was of him and Sammy, a few years ago. Dean remembered the evening clearly, the party after Sam’s successful graduation. He remembered how proud he felt of his little brother, of what he had achieved. The picture was taken in times in which they didn’t argue as often as they did now. The world seemed to be full of opportunities and promises then.

 

And now, especially during the last few months, the quarrels got more and more and there was nearly no day where they didn’t find some stupid thing to lock horns with each other. Most of the times, the topics they argued about weren’t even that important. Dean knew, that he was actually acting selfish when he tried to keep Sam from being with Ruby and stuff. He wanted to have his little brother all for himself, didn’t have the strength to let go of the good old times when it was just him and Sam against the rest of the world.

  
If Sam told him Ruby was clean, she had improved, chances were good she actually had changed. Sam, as a lawyer, had one hell of a knowledge of human nature, after all.  
This whole affair wasn’t worth being in constant conflict with Sam. Dean understood now that he had been wrong, and after all that happened he hadn’t even found the time to apologize to Sam.

Maybe he should just call him. The bright and warm rays of sun confirmed the clock in telling that it was already afternoon; Sam would be at his office at this time.  
“This is Sam Winchester’s office, how can I help you?”, a clear and fussy voice, almost to full of emotions and happiness, answered Dean’s call.  
“Uh, hi, Becky.” Dean didn’t like Sam’s secretary, and he wasn’t sure he was able to disguise that. She was just so naïve, and Dean couldn’t stand her happy-go-lucky attitude. “This is Dean. Can I talk to Sam for a moment?”  
“Dean! So happy to be hearing from you! I hope you have a very pleasant morning?” It was noon. But Becky certainly wouldn’t recoil from wishing people a good morning even in the middle of the night.

  
She didn’t even wait for any kind of answer, but kept prattling, telling Dean her life story once again and praising his brother in every way imaginable. It took a few, increasingly annoyed inquires of Dean before she finally got to the point of his call.

  
“I’m afraid Sam isn’t here right now. He hasn’t been for a few weeks actually. We are all very concerned about him, you know?” Her voice got sad. Becky was concerned about Sam, Sam’s health, Sam’s work, Sam’s car, Sam’s coffee, Sam’s everything 24/7, but Dean had to agree with her in terms of that it wasn’t usual for his brother to be neglecting his work so much.  
“You know, actually even when he showed up, he didn’t seem to be in such a good mood. He was tired, worn out, couldn’t concentrate on the cases, the poor angel.”  
Dean was confused, got worried, too. Sure, Becky was probably exaggerating exorbitantly, but this didn’t sound like Sam at all.

  
“Alright. Thank you Becky, I guess.” Dean hang up.  
He had to think. Dean hadn’t seen Sam for a while now, but usually he knew the places where he could encounter his brother.  
Sam wouldn’t be at home at this time of the day, but still, just to be sure, Dean tried calling there, unsuccessfully. No one answered.  
Maybe Ellen and Jo could know where Sam had been? He used to visit the speakeasy if he needed a place to relax. It was worth a try. Making his way through the mess that was his flat Dean grabbed his keys and drove off to the Harvelles’.

When he got there, Ellen and her daughter were just tidying up the speakeasy. There was no bustle at all, most of the clientage would only come late in the evening, after they had finished work for the day.

  
“My favorite cop! Fancy a drink?”, Jo greeted Dean with a bright smile.  
“No, thanks. I’m in a bit of a hurry right now. Searching for Sam. Have you two seen him lately?”  
“Your brother hasn’t been here since that glorious argument you two had.”, Ellen answered. “ I mean the last one of all of your glorious arguments, certainly. Listen, hero, this is supposed to be a place to calm down. Stop sparing in here, would you? It’s not exactly recruiting customers.” She winked at Dean.

  
Sam had neither been at work nor at the speakeasy? Dean was worried. “Listen, can I use the phone for a second?”  
Ellen answered by gesturing him the way.  
Dean tried to call his brother, again.  
“Come on Sammy, just answer the damn call.”, Dean bit his lip nervously.

  
Nothing happened. When he tried to call Ruby, she answered, half asleep, but even she didn’t know where Sam was. (“I thought he was at work? He went to work from my flat this morning.”)  
This was not a good sign at all. From the moment Sam had met Ruby, both of them had always known where the other one was at every moment. Something was happening.

  
“I’m going to drive to Sam’s. See if there’s any sign there to where my brother is. Maybe he had enough of all the work and stuff and went for holidays and left a note.”, Dean explained when busting out of the door right past the startled Jo and Ellen. But who was he trying to fool. Sam certainly wasn’t in holidays.

When Dean reached the neat house in the suburbs which his brother called home, he was surprised to find the door open. Sam always locked the front door just to be secure. Bobby meant that it was probably the caution he subconsciously learned after what had happened to their mother.

  
Dean wasn’t used to doors not squeaking when he opened them, but then again, this was a wealthy suburb of New York’s, and Sam kept his house in a very perfect and shining state.  
“Sam?”, he mumbled when entering the room.

  
Left open front doors in wealthy neighborhoods are usually a sign of robbery or at least forced entry, that Dean knew oh too well from his job. If there was any kind of criminal activity going on in here, he had to be extremely careful and quiet. Alarmed thugs had a tendency of getting violent.  
The memories of his first cases with the police filled his mind, robberies in wealthy neighborhoods, resembling this situation to well for Dean’s liking.  
Almost instantly Dean felt the adrenalin rushing through his veins, sharpening every single sense. He was used to his muscles tensing and his heart beat fastening. It wasn’t as if Dean, the cop, hadn’t been in quite to similar situations quite too often.

It didn’t seem like the house had been robbed though, it was perfectly tidied up, Dean noticed as he was lurking through the corridor, nothing lying around on the ground except for expensive carpets.

  
Had there been a noice? Rapidly Dean’s hand was at his holster, firmly embracing his weapon, ready to point and shoot it at any moment.  
The kitchen to Dean’s left was empty though, so he made his way further, carefully considering the exact placement of every step he made, as if the floor could crash in, would he make one wrong movement. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, imagining noises, maybe the constant need of alertness that came with his job wasn’t to healthy for him, making him oversensitive. Chances were there wasn’t anyone in here besides him, chances were Sam had just gone outside and left the door open by mistake.

  
Trough the almost spooky silence in the house Dean suddenly heard moaning, painful and muted. It was coming out of the living room.  
“Sam?” Dean pulled the door open.

Sam’s body is crumpled like a piece of paper on the floor, back turned to him, shivering, and Dean's red flags raise instantly.  
Besides him a candle, flame dead, next to it a spoon. For a moment, it feels like the world is crashing to a halt, every detail razor sharp, so sharp that it cut’s trough Dean, making him freeze. The way Sam's mouth is open, trembling eyelids and oh God, what the hell is that in his arm? His left sleeve has been yanked up, leaving his arm bare, blue veins coursing beneath pallid skin and there is the syringe. A fucking syringe, shoved up his goddamn arm, like a knife in the chest and Dean feels nauseous, blood rushing in his ears and everything is turning, turning, turning.  
His brother's chest heaves, once, twice, a low groan escapes his mouth and Dean is instantly besides him.

"Sam", he hisses, voice urgent and thick with disbelief, hands hovering above the body, then fisting the fabric of his shirt. "Don't die on me now, you got that?"  
His brother makes a strangled sound, a gasp for air- is he choking? And Dean, stupid, fucking, useless him, simply watches his brother die, as Sam's body stills, the frown of his face subsiding and oh God, this can't be happening, had he been there, just a minute earlier it would have been different, had he not quarreled with him, maybe he could have prevented this, an endless list of 'had he maybe's.

But it's no good and Dean chokes back a sob, shaking his brother by his shoulder.  
"Sammy", he calls out again from between clenched teeth, and again, once, twice, thrice, desperately, but his brother doesn't hear him, his brother doesn't respond. And terror runs beneath Dean's skin, making his hands clammy and everything around him unreal.

  
Dean shudders a breath, eyes prickling with tears and he pulls Sam upright, torso slumping against his chest, but his skin is so, so cold and Dean has to bite back a cry. He yanks the syringe out of his arm, watches it skitter across the floor. Brushes the hair out of his brother's face, cradling him against his body, because Sammy can't be dead, not like this, not like a fucking junkie passed out on the floor with a needle piercing his skin, because his brother- he deserves something better.

Sam makes a low noise. Oh god thanks. He lives.  
"Ruby?",Dean asks blearily.

  
  
Dean couldn't believe it. After all she did to try to persuade him that she changed, she was even worse than Dean had thought her to be. She gave his brother drugs, she was the one causing Sam's condition. Sam was on the edge of dying and Ruby, Ruby had made him into this, had made Sam into a junkie, depending on whatever he took to keep living and yet getting killed by the same stuff.

  
Dean always imagined his brother's cause of death to be to be shot by some lunatic he was about to send up behind bars, fighting in the name of law and for justice. He always imagined Sam to be dying in battle against injustice, a hero, because that was what Sam was and that was what he deserved. Not this. Dean never could have imagined him to be dying of an overdose.  
But the battle Sam fought at the moment was the one against drugs, and he was about to loose it. Dean had to get him to a doctor. Now.

Getting Sam out of the house and heaving him into the passenger's seat was difficult, Sam himself couldn't move to much let alone walk. His full weight beared down on Dean's shoulder and carrying his well-build brother was hard, so hard, but finally, after way to much time passed, they were both sitting in the car, Sam's head nearly falling down on his chest. Wouldn't it be for the seatbelt, Sam would tilt forward and crash into the dashboard. He was dropping off.  
“Stay awake Sam, you hear me? You have to stay conscious.”, Dean mumbled when starting the engine. He had to hurry up.

Sam moaned as an answer. He already was half asleep.  
And wouldn't he have to concentrate, wouldn't Dean have to keep his shit together to bring his brother to the nearest hospital as fast as possible, he could swear his heart would break, right now and right here. He failed the one ever-lasting responsibility he had to fullfill, he hadn't looked out for Sam enough, he hadn't cared enough, he hadn't saved Sam from all this. He had missed the one, the only thing his mother had ever asked him to do, the last thing she requested of him before she got murdered, he had failed to fullfill her dying wish.

  
And in that moment Dean wished his father would be here, he wished he would give him hell, he wished John would beat the shit out of him and make him learn his lesson, make him be the son he and Mary had wanted him to be, make him be the brother Sam needed.

  
He could see the dissapointment in his mother's eyes, how they slowly filled with tears as she tried so hard to save the very last bit of hope and trust she had put in her son, but knew that she couldn't save it, because Dean was not trust-worthy, he wasn't somebody to look up to, he was an egoist, and a coward, and a failure.

  
He could hear their voices in his head, his mother so dissapointed, trying to be strong, to hold back her sobs, his father reproachful, angry, furious, asking the one question over and over again, echoing in his head until he believed he would go insane.  
Why, why, why...?

And yet Dean drove, neglecting the speed limit constantly, eschewing the other cars only scarcely, red traffic lights or priority signs had no meaning right now. Because the only thing he got left to do, the only chance he had was to get to a doctor, to at least save Sam's life after he had failed to look out for him so bad.

  
Sam turned around to face Dean, but his eyes were still closed, he couldn't see his brother, his face was still in an expression of pain.  
He opened his mouth, and tried to say something that came out as a soft, anemic breath:  
"Dean..."  
Sam's mouth closed a bit as his head fell down on his shoulder, his eyelids stopped trembling and his face relaxed.  
“Shit, Sam!”

Sam didn’t react.  
Automatically Dean checked for his brothers breath, and holding his hand in front of Sam's mouth and nose he could still feel a limo breeze bvrushing his fingers. Sam was unconcious. Dean knew though that if Sam had gotten unconcious by now, it wouldn't be to long until he...  
Dean fully depressed the accelerator pedal and the engine reved.

  
He could feel his heart beating faster in panic. “Come on Sammy. You need to stick it out.”, Dean begged, his voice trembling.  
The mintues it took until they finally reached the hospital's emergency entrence turned to hours, unbearable hours of sole pain and frustration.

“A doctor! We need a doctor!”, Dean yelled as soon as he reached the hospital, he hadn't even stopped the car yet and was shouting out of the window. Doctors and nurses came running out of the building. Dean had just stopped the car when they were already pulling Sam out of his seat, heaving him on a strecher and carrying him towards the entrence.

  
Two nurses stayed with him, all of the other staff were gathered around Sam.  
“What happened?”, one of them inquired.  
“He overdosed. I...I don't know what he took, whatever it was, he...it was inserted with a syringe, and when I got to him, his heartbeat was slow..."  
"When was that?", she interrupted.  
"I don't know, maybe twenty minutes ago, I'm not sure, he got worse during the drive, he was still concious when I got there but he lost conciousness about five minutes ago or so..." Dean bretahed in heavily.  
The nurse nodded and hurried towards her colleauges, who had already passed the door to the entrance, two guardsmen were about to close it.

  
Sam had gone out of Dean's side, which gave him an even greater feeling of loosing control.  
One of the two nurses, a blonde one, had stayed, and she seemed to notice Dean's panic, because she suddenly stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the door.  
"They'll take care of him from here, thank you. You are his...?", she asked. Her voice was soft and sothing.  
"Brother." Dean paused. "Im his big brother."

The nurse had scrutinized him pitifully before she had asked him to follow her inside, fill out the required paperwork. She had offered him to wait a bit and let him calm down before, but he declined. He wanted to get over with this as soon as possible, to get to Sam.  
Jessica, that apparently was the girl's name, was sensitive and nice. She had somebody bring Dean a tea, but he didn't drink it, he just wrapped his hands around it to stop them from shaking.

"...Thanks, Mr. Winchester, that was about it.", Jessica smiled at him warmly, lying down the pen she filled out all the formulars and warrants.  
There was a short pause, non of them seemed to know what to do now, but thankfully Jessica wasn't as absent with her thoughts as Dean was.  
"Do you maybe need to call someone, Mr. Winchester?", she inquired.

  
Bobby. The first name coming to Dean's head was the one of his supervissior. Sure, Bobby was his boss, but he was so much more too. Not only to Dean, but also and especially to Sam Bobby was more than a friend, he was like a father. After their mother's death and with his father constantely being out of town in search for her murderer, they practically grew up at Bobby's.

  
"Yes, actually I do. Thank you.", Dean agreed. He was searching his pockets for some change, hands still trembling, but he didn't find any coins. He must have left his wallet at home, and he didn't use to keep loose coins in his pockets, that would be an almost inviting opportunity for pickpockets.

  
When Jessica noticed Dean didn't have any money with him, she turned around, her fair curly hair dancing and jumping in the air, to reach for her pink, beaded purse.  
He placed a few dimes in his hand.  
"Tell me if you need more", she invited him with yet another smile, and pointed into the direcction of the black telephone that stood at a little desk on the other side of the room.

“Yeah.”  
“Bobby? This is Dean.”  
“Dean. If you are trying to persuade me to reverse your suspenspension, you can shove it up your..."  
“That’s not why I’m calling, bobby. It’s Sammy. He...I'm in hospital with him right now.”  
“You are what?  
“You heard me.”  
“Oh god, Dean. What happened?”  
"..."  
"What was that?"  
“He got…He, uhm, he overdosed.”  
"...This is not funny boy.”  
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”  
Pause.  
“You don’t.”  
“I ain't. The doctors haven't returned yet, they are still attending him. Bobby, I don’t know what to do, or what they do to him. I don’t even know if he…”  
“I’m on my way. Stay right where you are.”

  
And Dean stayed. He sat down at one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room and worried, waited, hoped. This was his fault. If he only had trusted his gut feeling and got Sam away from Ruby when there was still time. If he only, If he only...But it was to late now.

“Boy?” Bobby approached Dean, looking serious, worried. Hh was still in his police uniform, he hadn’t even changed clothes before leaving the precinct to come here. Bobby was even carrying his gun, an action that would normally be prohibited inside of hospitals.  
“I got here as fast as I can.” Bobby fixed said as he was sitting down besides Dean.

  
Dean had lost every sense of time while he sat here waiting, riven by guilt, hope, fear, unrest, anger, triying to control all those feelings and trying not to explode.  
"I haven't talked to the doctors yet, they still haven't left Sam. I wish I could take away your worries, Bobby, but..."  
That's not what I am worried about. I am sure they are giving their best, and there is nothing we can do to help Sam right now. Your brother is strong, Dean, he'll be ok. Who I am worried about is you, boy.”, Bobby stated, still carrying that bothering look.  
“Me?”

  
“Exactely. I can sense your self-hate miles away.”, Bobby confirmed.  
“I’m…It’s hard. Sitting here and waiting, not able to do anything, to help in any way, not knowing if he is ok or… or not.”  
Bobby waited, and Dean breathed heavily.  
“It is my fault, Bobby.” Dean’s voice was breaking.  
“Don’t be silly. You know it isn't?!”  
“I should have stopped this. I should have stopped him. I should have stopped Ruby. If I just had been there for my brother when he needed me, we wouldn’t sit here right now. Sammy wouldn’t be here.”

  
“Dean, listen to me. Maybe you're right, we wouldn’t have to sit around here right now. It wouldn’t have been that specific drug. But it would have been another poison, another time, and still the same result. Dean, none of the dumb actions your brother is stressed out enough to do is your fault, as little as your drinking habit is caused by Sam. Do you understand this, boy? ”  
Dean didn’t.  
“No, Bobby. I should have taken care for Sammy, and I haven’t. I am the older one of us, I am responisble for our acts, and I failed. This is the reason why all this happened.”

  
“Sam is a grown up man, he is not the helpless little boy you defended against the bullies anymore. He doesn’t need anyone to protect him, and you are not in a position anymore to take the responsibility and the beating for his acts. To do this was his decision and he alone has to take responsibility for his actions. Don't deny him his rights and duties as an adult, Dean.”  
But Dean didn't respond, only pressed his lips together even more, because as much as he liked, he couldn't believe Bobby. He couldn't.

  
“I want you to go home.”, Bobby suddenly stated after a few minutes of silence.  
“No, Bobby. I have to stay here with Sam.", Dean answered.  
“Don't you get it? There is nothing you can do right now, and I don’t like you sitting around here hating yourself. You could at least take the time to get bit sleep.”  
“And shower.”, Bobby added with a look at Deans smutty clothes.

  
“But I..”, Dean started.  
"No but. You can do everything you’ll do here at home. And you lack sleep. I’ll wait here and call you right when I get to know anything new.”  
Dean hesitated: “You will?”  
Bobby nodded. “Sure. Whatever time it may be.” With another spurning nod of Bobby's, Dean finally stood up, silently thanked Bobby, and made his way out of the building.  
“Dean!” Bobby called him back as he was nearly out of the door. “Take a cab.”  
“Why would I? I got my car parked right here.”  
“Boy, you smell of booze 'till here. Add your confused feelings, and you’ll crash for sure. And I don’t want to explain to Ellen why both you and your brother share a two-bed-room in hospital.”, Bobby stated, approached him and placed his old, battered leather wallet in Dean's hand.

It was already dark outside when Dean took the taxi home, the lights in the streets burning brightly and only a few people walking around in town anymore, on their way to take dinner, go to theatre or else, out to have fun. They were laughing and joking, making their way trough the city happily. Not so long ago Dean would have been on their place with Sam, enjoying the night, happy to leave the occurences of the day behind him. Frustration was building inside him.

  
It got worse when he got home. His flat once had been a place to relax for him, to calm down, but now staying there with nothing to do but to wait had turned into torture.

  
Dean poured himself a drink, tossed it down, filled the glass a second time. The flat was still the same as it was when he left it; Splinters of glass, wood, still the bottle of liquor, the ambered-coloured puddle, broken furniture and things that used to make his flat look inhabited now turned the floor into a weird piece of modern art. The broken parts of the furniture added to the picture of an abandoned home.

  
Dean took his favorite picture of him and Sam. It still had been lying on the ground, too. Those happy and satisfied faces felt like a lie.  
Trembling and breathing heavily Dean took a sip of his drink, but this time, it didn't help.  
His own, younger self seemed to fix him, chanting: Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, until Dean was sure he would go mad. It was unbearable.

  
With all the strength he could possibly muster Dean tossed the picture to the ground, willing to destroy. The glass bursted, small splinters leaping away in every possible direction. The frustration turned into rage, into the urge to destroy. Dean chucked away his glass with a roaring scream. His brest was lifting and lowering fastly, furiously pumping blood through his veins. He was able to hear it rushing trough him, intensifying the impact of the alcohol and thus intensifying his rage, the emotions building up like a huge wave, ready to break at any second.

  
He took a deep breath and hold it, closed his eyes, wild, roaring forces inside him, building up, up, getting more and more, stronger and stronger until he lost every left power of control.  
And when he finally opened his eyes again, the wave broke, bursted into devastation, releashing unknown, tremendous verdures.  
Dean threw down the expencive tableware, yelling, shouting, a storm raging inside him, and when the bursting of the service only brought a short satisfaction, he reached for the bottle, cold but bruning liquor running down his throath almost immediately absorbed into his blood, until he felt so strong, so mighty that the world around him started to turned, revolved around him, he was in the center and the anger let the world become black for a second, but he was not going to faint, he was not finished.

The bedsheets were next, being ripped apart as if they were the reason for all bad, with such aggravation, and finally Dean understood the power his Dad always got from destruction, from breaking things and from beating, and for a moment he became addicted to that feeling, he didn't want it to go away, so he proceeded. Kicking the shelves didn’t help much and caused frustration, not more power, so Dean decided to try to knock them over but fell down with them, cutting the insides of his hands on the splitters of the glass and plates on the floor. And then, only caused by the pain, Dean’s uneasiness got better, the blind rage and frustrated anger slowly vanished. Dean was pumped out. His heart still beat fast, causing his hand to tremble as he once again reached for the bottle.

Blood dripped out of his wounds, but Dean didn’t care about patching them up. He was devasted.  
And right then, just when he sat in the middle of piles of shards like a lost boy, slowly getting the concept of what he had done, what a monster he had turned to be for a few minutes, a voice appeared.  
“Hello, Mr. Winchester.”

  
Dean closed his eyes. This surely was Missouri, about to kick him out of the flat, she possibly even had seen the whole scenario and wanted him out here in a minute or she would call the police. Not only would Sam be in hospital, but Dean would loose his home, and surely his job not so far after too.  
When he felt ready to bear the storm that was coming, he opened his eyes again. But the person standing in front of him wasn't Missouri, no, she wore a proffesional, long sleeved dress and espensive pumps. It was Naomi.

  
And suddely, without a warning, guilt returned, and with it came shame. Shame that she had to see this, had to see him in that state, had to see him being out of controll, an emotional wreck.  
“There is no need to feel bad, Dean. I can help you. We can help you, and you know how. You know what to do to make everything turn alright again, don't you? What you did won’t matter anymore, it will all be excused and forgotten, and this, this is what you really crave for.”

  
Dean breathed in heavily. Surely he knew what Naomi wanted him to do, and even though something inside him told him that he shouldnt, warned him to turn around and run, run as far aways as possible and never return near her, he didn't. He didn't want to run away, for one time in his life he wanted to stay. What Naomi described- she was right, it was infact what he was searching for, a new life, no more sorrow and pain. It sounded too tempting to be good, to be real.

  
“You will live for the moment, and only for the moment. No more worries about future, or past, just the chance to enjoy the pleseantness of now. Not having to worry about anything, or anybody. Never again.”

  
Naomi’s voice was mesmerizing, it was as if what she said came to life in his head, as if he was dreaming, he was watching himself, sorrounded by friends, laughing, happy, completely relaxed. He could smeel the sweet air of a walk through a park, could sea the colours of a sunset and hear the rushing of small waves on the sea, feel the warm and soft sand under his bare feet, this was where he could feel home, this was where he belonged.

  
“You will be adored, loved. There will be a greater meaning in your life, no hunting for criminals anymore, but an important task that only you can fullfill, and a task that you will fullfill, and that will give you more than it could imagine while taking nothing from you in return.”

  
She spoke in future tense as if all this was really going to happen. As if there was no doubt. As if he could just go with her right now, and his life would turn back to a better than normal, better than average, but outstanding and shining. But could he?

  
“You want your problems to disappear, don’t you? Accept my offer, and they will. We will make them disappear for you.”  
Naomi wouldn’t stop smiling. She looked like an angel, and her words sounded so humble, so caring, her voice so sweet and promising, that Dean was about to believe her, was about to accept, if there just wasn't this small dark spot inside of him that desperately warned him not to do so.

  
Then Benny appeared behind her, his cap pulled down so far into his face that Dean couldn't see his eyes, but he smiled, seemed happy, was offering Dean a hand as if to help him up. He was accompanied by the two brothers, Michael and Lucifer, their faces turned towards the ground but their posture was proud, they were for once not fighting, but walking arm in arm, like brothers were supposed to be. Not battling, but calm, in unity. The unity he always wished for him and Sam, now those two showed him, and it seemed so easy to reach, he just...  
And then Anna came up, her small nose looked out under one of those huge hats she adored so much, a living, smiling, breathing Anna, looking more gorgeous than she ever had, her feet only touching the ground very softly, so that it seemed like finally, finally she reached her goal, she could fly, fly off and out into the sky whenever she wanted.  
“You can be with us, Dean. Don’t you want to be with your friends, forever?”

  
And right on cue Dean found Cas standing on her left. His bright blue eyes fixed Dean and his smile was a better confirmation than any words or any acts could ever have been.  
Oh god, yes, he wanted to be with Cas.  
As Dean tried to speak, tell them the final yes, tell Naomi he would come with her, he would be with her, with his friends, with the theatre, forever, he would never look back, he would...

  
The world in front of him turned black, and no, he needed to accept, he needed to say the word, just a little yes, and he gathered all his strenghts to just speak out one little word out loud, but he couldn't. His head fell down to his chest and only seconds later Dean couldn’t stay awake anymore. He collapsed, unconscious before he had even touched the floor.

Dean awoke because of his phone ringing, ripping him out of dreamless black dephts that seemd to devour him. Birds chirped their sweet melodies and build a singing chorus, and the sun shined into the room, luminating the scenery, light being reflected by the broken pieces of glass; it was early morning.  
It took him a minute to get up, he hadn't moved from the place where he had layed when Naomi had visited him.  
The blood on his hand had dried, but the wound was still pounding painfully.

  
“Hello?” He rubbed his eyes drowsy.  
“Dean. It’s Bobby.”  
“Bobby! Is Sam alright?” Dean could literally feel the lump of tension building in his throat.  
“Yeah. Doctors say he’ll just need time to regenerate. After all he had a hell of luck. When I visited him earlier they said that, wouldn’t it have been for the quick medical help he got, he probably wouldn’t have survived this.”  
“You visited him? Did you talk to him?”, Dean inquired hastily.  
“He hadn’t regained conciousnes. Dean, what I’m trying to say is that you saved your brother’s life.”  
Dean kept silent for a few minutes.  
“Bobby, you think i, can i…Can I visit him?”  
“Sure, boy. He’d probably like to see your face when he wakes up. And he owes somebody a thank you, anyway.”

Jessica, the blonde nurse, greeted Dean when he arrived in the hospital, and she spared no effort to guide Dean to Sam’s room without him asking. She turned around as they nearly reached the door.  
“Mr. Singer had to go back to work already, but your brother’s girlfriend arrived. She is inside.”, Jessica stated with a smile, but this one was forced, disappointed even, maybe.  
“His girlfriend?” Dean was beside hisself. He felt a new wave of range build up in him, all to familiar from the occurances of the last day.  
Jessica nodded; I know, right? He’s so not her type. And then made her way back to the waiting room.

“Get out of here or I swear I will forget about every rule not to hit women.”, Dean’s voice was not less angry and dangerous, although he was careful not to scream, just for once, he had to control himself, and if it was only for Sam. After all he didn’t want to wake his brother, who was still sleeping. This was the least he could do.  
“Dean, I…”  
“Out.”  
Ruby struggled to keep a steady voice, took a deep breath, and fixed dean's eyes. “I won’t. I am his girlfriend, I have every right to be here.”

  
Dean let his jaw click and pursed his lips. His eyes were cold, calculating, dangerous. Enough. Dean grabbed Ruby By her wraist and pulled her out of the room, dragged her over the corridor right into a small storeroom right on the opposite side of the Sam's room.

Ruby was too surprised to do anything against it and she didn’t even fight back as he threw her against the wall. Holding her arm with one hand, Dean slapped her in the face as hard as he could. Her cheek immediately turned red. She wanted to scream, but Dean pressed his hand on her mouth, only a muffled sound of surprise was hearable.

  
“Listen here, _bitch_.”, Dean whispered, “you have absolutely no right to get even near my brother. Do you understand?”, Ruby's eyes got big with shock, maybe even fear. "Now, I happen to know that you were the one who got him addicted, and I want to know what you gave him. I will let you speak now, and if you scream, I will forget I was raised a gentleman and I won't guarantee you will see the outside world of this room ever again." He removed his hand, clenched his fist, ready to attack whenever it should be needed.

  
“How do you know I…?”, was the only thing Ruby said. Dean had at least expected a little bit of counteraction, but anyway, it was better the easy way.  
“Sam told me. And now you tell me.”  
Ruby fixed him, for a moment she seemed to think of gainsaying everything. But Dean’s glance told her once again not to do so if she wanted to get out here alive, so she looked down and lowered her voice. She seemed full of guilt, even a bit sorry.

  
“I have access to some…sources who happen to sell drugs, as you know. Sam had stress in his job, he wasn't able to thinck about anything but work, and then you two were fighting all the time, so I tried to help him. He wouldn't listen to me telling him to take a break. I thought he would become ill, what should I do? So I got him a mixture of different stuffs. They happen to increase the level of capability and performance. It’s not my fault if he overdoses!”

  
Dean snorted. “Not your fault?! You made him a junkie! Well newsflash bitch, he wasn't going to gett ill. Sam can hand stress but what he can't handle is addiction. He is ill now." Ruby bit on her lip, still looking down to the floor,"Sam nearly died, Ruby!”

  
Ruby gulped. She really seemed scared regarding Sam’s health, but that could as well be just acting, because that woman had a talent at making other people believe things.  
“I know! I cause myself enough guilt, Dean! Don't you know I am really, genuinelly sorry? I tried to do something new, an experiment, involving Sam, and it didn’t work. I made a mistake, alright.”  
“You tried to do an experiment? What is that supposed to mean?” Dean got angry. Lies, drugs..."experiment" wasn't to mean anything harmless. He knew this all had been part of a bigger work.

  
She pursed her lips.  
“You better talk, Ruby.”, Dean threatened, his voice raised, his fist clenched so much that it slowly turned red.  
“Alright, alright! I am. I...I wanted to see how the TUMCONY worked. And I needed Sam to get in there, which he wouldn’t have done under normal circumstances. The drugs helped, I admit that.”

  
Dean was confused.  
“The only thing I knew right then was that there was big business going on in there. It seemed as if the theatre in some way attracts people who have psychical predestinations. I thought Sam would be an ideal subject once I cause him those predestinations, but when I met you...", she laughed, a high, hysterical laugh, "This lead me to helping you, Dean. With you having been in war and all, I figured you might be a better choice.”  
Dean was startled. A better choice for what? Was she plaing with him?

  
“But now I know the only way to find out more is to get in there myself. I get that I can't just cause others to get in there, I can't just choose people, they do. They offered me a part as a performer, but they don’t know that I got them psyched out. I’m gonna get in there for a few days, get some more information, and before they even know what happens I’m right out of there again.”  
Still, Dean didn’t exactly know what she was talking about. But spying in his beloved theatre wasn't exactely making him feel comfortable.  
Ruby, on the other hand, didnt make him comfortable either, especially not around his brother, so getting her away would be a good choice. He wasn't going to stop her.

  
“Well do what you want. But stay the fuck away from Sam. I see you lurking around somewhere near my brother or even trying to get through to him again? I swear I will kill you. I will go to jail happily for it If I must. But you will be out of my brother's life, one way or the other. You can decide yourself if you'd rather be dead or alive.” In seconds, Ruby had left the room.  
Dean breathed in heavily, tried to clear the bullshit Ruby told him out of his mind, and made his way to his brother again. He would stay there until Sam would wake up.

Sam was breathing calmly the whole time while Dean watched over him. He seemed to dream, even a small smile on his face, his breast lifting and lowering, lifting and-it stopped. What? Dean headed over to him, narrowing his eyes to get a better look. Sam didn't breathe.

“Sam!”. Dean checked his pulse, memories in his head of the last day, of the two times he nearly lost Sam. Please, not again. But there was no pulse. Sam was dead. “No, Sammy, hey, come on. NO!” Not after all that happened. Not after Sam made it, not after he was in hospital, not after the doctors had flicked him together and got him clean again. Not after he for a moment had stopped worrying over Sam. He couldn’t be dead. Not after finally Dean was about to start a new life all over again, after they could finally be brothers at least. Tears welled in his eyes, ran over his cheeks.  
“You don’t want this to happen, do you, Dean?”

  
He turned around.  
“Naomi was standing there, the smile She usually carried had turned into a worried frown. Still she looked like a mother, scared to loose her child.  
“You! What have you done to him?”, Dean screamed, paralyzed of shock.  
“Sam is alright. This is a dream. You are sleeping Dean, you dozed off on your chair besides him. This is only a product of your mind, a product that I let your mind make up. I want to show you what may happen if you chose to keep neglecting our offer, if you still, over and over, choose the wrong answer.”

  
“How...can this be a dream?”, Dean blicked. He was startled.  
“You want proof, that is understandable. Look: He is breathing again, isn't he? I had you imagine him to stop, now you are imagining him to breath again. How could this be possible if it wasn’t in a dream? This is inside your head, Dean. If you concentrate hard enough, you can even change the surroundings, the time of the day…Whatever you want.”

  
And as she said so the sunny weather outside changed to a grey and windy snowstorm, the day tuned to black night, the hospital room changed to their old home, to the living room with flames in a huge fireplace flickering in the dark and illuminating the scenery. She was right.

  
“How can you just appear in my dreams?”, Dean whispered, wondered.  
“Oh, we have our ways.” Naomi answered with a smile.  
A small Dean and Sam were playing inside the room of their old home, chasing each other behind and on top of the furniture, laughing, only young children.  
“You don’t want to give all this up, I know that. I told you, Dean, that we can solve your problems, save you from causing even more and from all the pain, the tiredness, from yourself. And, most important, we can protect your family from anything bad that may happen to them. But for this you have to finally leave your family behind and come with us. This is the only possibility for all of you to stay safe.”

  
The scenery changed to the hospital room again. Doctors were surrounding Sam’s bed, trying to reanimate him, but failing.  
The dream began to vanish. The last thing Dean could remember was Naomi’s voice, clear as a bell:  
“You don’t want this to happen, do you, Dean?”


	10. Chapter 10

When he woke up again, eyes bleary and back stiff, Naomi had vanished. He was back in the boring, grey hospital room, the patter of the rain drowning out the sound of coughing and shuffling feet.  
The thin blanket over Sam's body moved and Dean's heart skipped a beat. His brother turned his head to face Dean, a slow movement, eyes fluttering open.  
"Dean?", he croaked, voice rough and thick with sleep.

  
"Heya, Sammy", Dean replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Sam blinked again, face scrunched up in confusion, when he looked down on his scrubs, the bandaged arm.  
"Where am I?"  
It made Dean's chest ache at hearing him like that, he sounded so young, vulnerable and frightened. Only his face spoke of his age, strings of hair falling over his pallid, sweat slick face.

  
"Given the fact that your roomies over there won't stop hacking up a lung, I'd say we're at a hospital."  
"What happened? I was back home and then I...and then you came over and..." Sam attempted to prop himself up on his arm but Dean quickly got up and pushed him back down gently.  
"You OD'd", words bitter on Dean's tongue, as he watched Sam's eyes widen in realization.  
"Oh my God. Dean, I..."  
"It's okay. It was Ruby."

  
Something passed over Sam's face, hand scrubbing at his face. "No, listen. It was my fault, Ruby, she..."  
Anger bubbled up in Dean, vision blanking out in rage, words leaving his mouth like bullets. "Don't you fucking dare to protect her! Not after this, not after she treated you like a fucking guinea pig!"  
Sam was quiet, eyes fixed on the blanket.

  
"I'm sorry."  
"Sorry?", Dean scoffed, eyes prickling with tears. "That's all you've got to say? You nearly died, Sam."  
Dean was angry, fucking furious, because if Sam would have listened to him he wouldn't be lying there, wouldn't have shot up who-knows-what up his veins, 'sorry' didn't change the fact that Dean had been worried sick about him. But he looked at his absolutely devastated face, sick and so, so tired and his words got stuck in his throat, because it was Sam, his stupid baby brother, who needed him right now.

  
Sam took a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know what I thought, I- I was so stupid and selfish... I just wish I could undo it, really."  
"You're alive, that's all that matters right now."  
His brother's eyes lit up with emotion, words sharp and jittering: "No, it's not! I was arrogant and... God! I was such an asshole to you. I can't believe that I trusted her more than you." The words hit Dean right in his chest, it was a confirmation, she had been more important than him, but it was going to be okay now, he told himself, Ruby was gone and Dean would leave soon, too and it was going to be okay. Because, who was he kidding- it was his fault than he gave Ruby the benefit of doubt and it was his fault that he couldn't protect Sam.

  
"It's just-" His brother paused, brows furrowed and eyes flickering. "I thought she loved me."  
And Dean couldn't bear to tell him the truth, all the things she had spat into his face. That she had visited him in the hospital.  
"It's alright, Sammy."

  
"No, hear me out! You warned me about her and it's my fault I didn't listen. It's my fault. And after all you've been through, you don't deserve this burden. It shouldn't have to be your job to keep an eye on me constantly. But there you go, look at me now." He laughed weakly, eyes shining with tears. "I'd be lying in a morgue, if it weren't for you, Dean. I don't expect you to forgive me, hell, I doubt you want to stay in contact with me. But I need you to know that I'm grateful for everything."

  
Did Dean really deserve the apology, if it was his fault after all that Sam ended up in the hospital? Dean knew that he wasn't strong, or brave, he was a failure, a coward. Right in that moment he was about to leave Sam behind, thinking about himself, running away from his responsibilities, his friends, his family, just because he was too weak to keep them all safe. Because, Dean knew, he was the source of their misery, if he hadn't, if he didn't, things would be a lot easier for everyone. He didn’t want to see any more deaths, any more suffering.

  
“Just promise me to choose your girlfriends more carefully in the future, would you?”  
Sam snorted. "Yeah, I guess I've learned my lesson."  
"Remember that girl you crushed on in high school? What was her name?"  
Sam's mouth twisted to a frown. "Madison was nice."  
"She was batshit insane, man. Wasn't she really into this dog thing-"  
"Okay, no. We're so not going to talk about this." His ears were flushed, but he was full on grinning now and Dean allowed himself to feel happy and carefully capture this picture, tucking it away for the future. He watched his brother with a fond smirk.  
"Bitch", he said.  
"Jerk."

  
They laughed.  
This was how Dean wanted to remember him, all smiles and floppy hair. But Dean was here to take leave and his heart ached briefly to leave his brother behind, but it was for his good, he kept telling himself, Sammy will do better without you, and he bannished the niggling doubt about his choice to the back of his mind.  
“For real, though, Sam. I won’t be around here forever to shoo away your girlfriends. Take yourself a nice wife, start a family that’ll care for you, when I can’t. That girl, your nurse, Jessica, definitely has my blessing.”, he winked and grinned, but Sam was suspicious.

  
“What are you talking about, Dean? Why wouldn’t you be around?”  
"Sorry to break it to you, man, but I'm not immortal. There'll come a day..." He shook his head. His chest ached with the knowledge that this was the last time they would see each other in their life. He couldn't tell Sam, he couldn't hurt him again. His body felt heavy.  
"Look, you're a great guy, alright. Mom and Dad would be proud of you, if they were alive. In the end I know I am, too."  
Sam looked at him incredulously. "How can you say that", he stuttered, "after all this, after I fucked up that badly?"  
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Because you're my little brother. That drug stint ain't you."

  
He smiled and mussed Sam's hair, placed his hand on his shoulder.  
"Don't look at me like that. It's gonna be alright, Sammy. Don't worry." Words working their way around the thick clump in his throat, strangled sounds. Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry. Dean stood up, eyes darting to the exit already.  
"Where are you going?", Sam asked. He was starting to get alarmed, voice laced with concern and- was that fear?

  
"I'm leaving", he replied, "I just wanted to check on you. You need rest, Sam. Get well soon." Dean patted Sam's back one last, final time. His brother watched him with wide eyes and he could see his brain rattling already.  
His eyes were stinging and Dean scrubbed his face, desperately hoping that Sam didn't see his tears. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, turned around and walked to the door.

  
"Dean?  
And he only stopped for a second, eyes screwed shut, it was too much for him, to know he would never hear this voice again but he was so, so tired and he just wanted everything to stop.  
“Good bye, Sammy", he choked out.  
Dean ignored the shouts of his brother, when he walked down the corridor. He ignored the way he felt like there wasn't enough air, that he was slowly going to asphyxiate.

He hurried out of the building onto the street. He had to go now, he wasn't going to change his decision no matter how long Sam gave him this kicked puppy look. It was for his own good that he left, he kept telling himself, except that this wasn't completely true, he was leaving, because he was weak and selfish and couldn't take it anymore, goddamn. He was broken beyond any repair and it was time to be taken to the trash can. Dean turned to leave but bumped into a man, who was walking in the opposite direction, all battered clothes and awful stench.

  
"Sorry, man", Dean replied quickly but the man looked up and his familiar eyes widened.  
"You", Carver said, "I've been looking for you."  
"What-" Dean exclaimed, but the man already moved close, one hand on Dean's arm.  
"Don't do this", he muttered, breath smelling of cigarettes and coffee.  
Dean yanked his arm free. "Nice to see you again and all, but I've no clue what you're talking about, buddy. And I'm kind of busy here, so..."  
He pushed him away and started walking quickly, but the voice still carried on.

  
"You don't want to lose your soul, man! You're gonna regret this!"  
He heard the sound of shoes hitting the pavement quickly and Dean sped up.  
"Fuck off", he shouted and ignored the strange looks passer-bys gave him. He decided to shake him off by turning into a small side street, darting through the narrow alley.

  
"I've just trying to save your neck here, damn it! No need to be rude! Makes me miss the good old times, when people would still pay Chuck Shurley respect!"  
He screeched to an abrupt halt, Chuck Shurley, he had heard that name before, but where? He turned around, wide eyes staring at the man, who had been following him and suddenly the name clicked into place.  
"Hold on", Dean said and jabbed one finger in his direction, "you?"

  
The man seemed rather pleased with himself, pulling his jacket straight. "Used to be", he said, "I prefer to go by Carver Edlund now. It's my pen name."  
Dean stared at him slack jawed, thoughts racing in his mind. The picture of him he had seen in the file appeared behind his eye.

  
"You didn't use to have a beard", he finally said.  
"No, I didn't."  
Dean paused.  
"Jesus", he breathed, "what the hell happened?"  
"With my facial hair?"  
"No, dumbass. With your successful career- I mean, you used to be comptroller!"  
"Oh, that was my wife. Ex-wife. Naomi's been always awfully pushy", he replied.  
It took Dean a moment to process what Chuck had said, mouth slightly agape.  
"Naomi",he repeated dumbly. "Red hair? Blue eyes? A bureaucratic monster?"  
"Sounds like her, yeah."

  
Dean paused, face scrunched up in horror. "You were banging Naomi? Jesus."  
Chuck squinted his eyes. "Uh, that's kind of inappropriate. And also not the point."  
Dean cleared his throat. "Right. Sorry."  
"The point is that I know what you're about to do and I want to stop you from doing the same mistake as me. Do not, I repeat, do not join TUMCONY under any circumstances. You'll lose everything, just like I did."

  
Dean laughed. "Why do you think I'm doing this, huh? I've got nothing to lose, man." Chuck sighed.  
"I'm sorry, but you have no idea what you're talking about. Do you know how your soul ist structured?"  
Dean raised his eyebrows. "My soul?"  
"Oh boy, that's going to take a while. You know, modern science's got it all wrong. Every human has some sort of essence, it's their life energy and we're gonna call it a soul."  
"Sorry, dude, but you kind of sound like a nutjob here."

  
The man shot him a glare, before he continued: "Your soul is a bit like a coconut."  
He raised his hands to mimic the shape of it. "Sorry for the terrible analogy, but it's all hard shell, liquid core, you know. Your chassis is cracked already but if you join the theater, you're going to get sucked dry. And then? What are you without your coconut?"  
Dean stared at him.  
"You need help, buddy."

  
"Oh, come on! Haven't you been seeing weird things lately? I've been in your position not all too long ago. But just because I got out with my coconut in one piece, it doesn't mean yours won't be...cracked open."  
"Hold on- what do you know about these-"  
"Hallucinations? It's your body telling you that something's seriously messed up. A way of alerting you that someone stuck a straw in your coconut so to speak."  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. "Alright, let's assume you're right about all this coconut stuff. What's my juice good for?"  
"It's energy, Dean." Chuck smiled bitterly. "It maintains life."

  
"I don't get it."  
"Look, that doesn't matter. Just- don't do this, okay."  
"No, fuck you! You said you've been in the same situation? Well, then you should know that living with them is hell. And I don't care what's going to happen to me, or my goddamn soul, I just want it to be over. Done with. Now get out of my way."

  
He pushed the uneasy feeling beneath his skin back, because he had set up his mind. And regardless of what anyone might tell him, he was going to do it- who could he rely on these days anyway, when half of the things he saw weren't even real. Chuck didn't follow him this time, when he crossed the streets, half running to get to the place, where he was needed, home.

  
But he could smell the smoke long before he finally got to TUMCONY. When he arrived he encountered a scene of total destruction. The formerly so sparkling, beaming and almost supernatural atmosphere of the building was gone. The theatre was half a ruin. The once cream colour now changed to a dusty grey, with parts of the facade crumbling down. Advertises and posters were ripped apart, pieces of paper flying through the air. The light signs had fallen down, current still sizzling between exposed wires. Dirt and smoke mixed with dust and was carried away by the wind, spreading the smell of fire. The scenery was creepily quiet, the silence only interrupted by frontage breaking of and falling to the ground.

  
Suddenly Dean heard cheering and screams from the inside, not delightful screams one could recognize at the amazing performances, but of warlike success, of riot.  
Were those vandals? And if so, what were they doing to the performers? To Cas?  
Alarmed Dean entried the building to find out what was going on.


	11. Chapter 11

Cas was feeling sorry after Dean had run out of the room after their massive argument. The way Deant had gone after Cas had asked him to, silent, without any contradiction made him realize that he may have hurt him, hurt him in ways he never wanted too.

Everything in the room suddenly reminded him of Dean, made him miss him, made him wish he could apologize to him here and now.   
Sure, Dean had made a mistake, but hadn't he himself made the greater one? Wasn't it injust of him to tell Dean that the two of them wouldn't be real if what Dean had found out about Cas would be true? He had never before felt the way for a person that he felt for Dean, the unconditional wish to see him happy, the way his heart seemed to jump Higher and higher, out of his chest, until he couldn't breathe whenever he saw Dean's smile, the way he noticed how Dean's ears moved up a bit when he smiled brightly, the heavenly formed jawline, the endless beauty of Dean's freckles that only waited to be counted, to be inspected, every single one...

  
All that, and oh so much more, Cas had been willing to risk over a stupid quarrel, just because Dean wanted to help, and now he knew how selfish it was of him to think that Dean was his, that he could do whatever he wanted and Dean would stay.

  
The bottle of scotch, Dean’s favorite, was still standing of the table, the two empty glasses a quiet recollection of the evening, taking him back into memories of desire and pleasure, quickening his pulse, once again. It was the first time for long that Cas really noticed his heart beating, pumping life through his veins. But it was also the first time for long that Cas felt guilt, an unpleasant knot that tried to tie itsself up inside him, gathering itsself together painfully.  
And with the bottle of scotch in sight Cas did something he hadn't done for a long time either; he pured himself a glass of the liquor, sat down, and drank - alone, not how he was used to.

  
The files Dean had brought with him were still there, too. His glass in one hand, Cas grabbed them and flicked through them, trying to get distracted.  
He recognized most of the persons, yet he couldn’t state to know them. Those men and women were not his colleagues, his friends whom he knew for such a long time. The longer Cas browsed them, the more unwelcome surprises revealed themselves. As if it wasn’t enough that he himself was apparently not who he thought he would be, as if it wasn't enough that he destroyed the life of two strangers who called themself his family, who loved them and who he couldn't love back, even if he tried so hard, he found out no one in this theatre had a fitting backstory:

The charming and gifted, yet sometimes annoying womanizer Balthazar for instance had been a boring government member, no major backstory, a boring life with a boring job. Then there was Ignatius Peter Freely’s file, or, as Cas knew him, the one of the magician Balthazar, which was graced by a wonderful picture of him in prison stripes, smiling into the camera seductively. There were notes about him being accused of treason. Apparently he had been a government official who stole some highly sensible documents to sell them to the highest biding. He was about to face serious punishment, but then, all of a sudden, the accusal had been abandoned and Mr. Freely disappeared off the radar.

Those were only a few of the files, and the others weren’t any less spectacular, all of the those persons that had files about them were a completly other person than how Cas knew them, sometimes even an exact opposite. The files didn't only make him feel uncomfortable, they made him question his life, his choices, even his sanity. A strange feeling to know who you are yourself, and yet not to know the smallest thing about you.

  
The files naturally lead Cas to think back about his own experience when he found out his real identity. James "Jimmy" Novak had been what one could call the opposite of Cas. The way Mrs. Novak had called Cas, "Jimmy?", she had asked him with a soft voice, full of hope that she would finally have found her husband, the man who she had promised to love until her death...  
Cas had felt as if something inside of him, a small piece of himself had died, and that had scared him. Those many new feelings in the last few weeks were extremely overcharging.

Did he really want to show the truth to the other performers, his friends, forcing them into the same existencial crisis he had just experienced? Apart from the risks that could occur if Naomi or Crowley got to know, maybe it would be easier for them to keep their lifes going as they were. Unknowing.  
Would he want to force them to face their past, even if they were happy with the presernt, and all out of a weird feeling that something wrong was going on, with files that could as well be made up? But then again, they couldn't be made up, he himself had met his own "family", and besides, he trusted Dean. Dean had never given him any reason not to trust him.

  
And there he was again, the handsome detective with his magically green eyes, infiltrating Cas’ thoughts once more.  
Dean had urged Cas to do something, to fight back against Crowley’s and Naomi’s plans, to free himself from their intentions and to get himself of the cage and take over control over his life himself.  
And Dean was right. Something had to be done.

Cas firstly talked a selected few of the other performers. To Benny, when they were rehearsing the show at stage and Crowley and Naomi had left to get Coffee in the city.  
"I don't know, Cas, I don't think Dean is right. We have it good here, and Naomi and Crowley never gave us a reason to fight against them. In fact, they have been very generous, haven't they?", Benny responded when Cas had told him all.  
"Exactely this is the issue in this situacion, Benny. Naomi and Crowley make us trow a concept that is outright different from the truth.", Cas tried to explain, but Benny just shruged his shoulders and changed topics.

  
"What are you brooding about, Castiel?", Balthazar inquired, a bit annoyed of the fact that Castiel didn't put his usual efford into their conversation. Balthazar had called Cas over for a drink one evening, and while Bela was sipping her third glass of burbon, Cas hadn't even touched his first one. When Cas eyes switched over to Bela for just a second, Balthazar immediately understood.

  
"Bela, love.", he purred, "Leave us men alone for a minute and take your Burbon for a walk outside."  
Bela narrowed her eyes and grabbed her glass so hastily that she spilled nearly half of her drink.  
"This is my room as much as it is yours and I won't let you command me any more. I'm going outside, I need some fresh air.", she hissed and slammed the door behind her.

  
"Well?", Balthazar waited.  
"I am not entirely sure you would be glad to hear this.", Castiel said, fixing Balthazar unsecurily.  
"Everything that haunts your soul, dear freind, haunts mine too. Enlighten me."  
Cas searched for the right words, but with a topic like this, were there even right ones?

  
"Your whole life and existence is a construct of lies.", Cas finally stated.  
"Well those are some news indeed!", Balthazar, magician, master of lies, answered and took a sip of his wine.

He wasn't so sportive after Cas told him the whole story and showed him his file, though. He just stared at his file, at the picture that had been made of himself, and was silent. It was making Cas feel uncomfortable, Balthazar wasn't the silent type at all.  
"I understand if you dont believe me.", Cas said, "It is just..."  
"Oh no, no. I completely believe you, of course I do..", Balthazar interrupted and made a gesture in Cas direction, his glass still in his hand, the dark red wine swashing in it like blood, "that is the problem here. It all makes way to much sense for me to like it."

  
Cas felt a wave of relieve. "Good. Benny didn't, sadly."  
"Well, dear Cas, if you haven't noticed yet, I am not Benny. I am the magician in this show, it is basically my job to believe weird stories. And not too seldom those weird stories are the one you tell. Benny, on the other hand, is the freak, in every imaginable way."

"What we need now,", Balthasar said as a few minutes of silent thinking had past, "is to explain these things here to the others as well, and make them believe it, too, what couldn't be too easy after Naomi's brainwashing system. I, of course, am awful with words whereas you are a master of them, so it is only logical that this job is yours.", Balthazar concluded.

  
"I don't think they'd believe me. Think of Bela, Meg...", Cas answered, but Balthazar smirked.  
"Oh, people believe so much when they are in a crowd. That's one of the major principles of my work. You may not be able to get the crowd together, but once they are, you are the one who's success in persuading is guaranteed."  
"And how can we get them together, then?", Cas inquired, still not convinced.  
And yet again, Balthazar smirked.  
"Let that be the least of your worries and the first of mine.", he concluded and sipped on his wine.

By the next weekend, when Crowley and Naomi had called a free day, Balthazar had magically managed to get together all the performers, and even some of the staff of the theatre. He had the performance room and stage be cleared so that they could use it, doors looked from the inside so that noone could surprise their meeting.  
So Cas got up on the big stage, the performers sitting in the audience, and did the one thing he could do best- he told stories. Only this time, they were true.

 

  
  
Once the crowd had been mobalized, they were unstopable. In between breaks, after performances, while training and practicing...suddenly they used every occasion that came up to make plans, forging an alliance of rebillion. They declared Cas as their leader, which on the one hand made him proud, gave him confidence, on the other hand though made him feel uncomfortable, as they were awaiting orders from him, asked him what to do, even though he wasn't sure he knew the right answers himself. The troup was searching for the ideal circumstances to actually executing their rebellion, and they wanted it to be done as soon as possible. Cas didn't have the feeling he was such a good help, so mainly he stayed in the back, listening to the proposals of the others, letting Abaddon lead the conversations and only occasionally interrupting for a comment.

  
The performers had chosen a sunday, but it would be one of those where no performance would be in the evening, because Crowley and Naomi planned to be in their office for the whole day, they said they did this to go over the performances and improve them, but normally they would do this to prepare the arrival of a new performer.  
And when the day came Cas could feel the energy, the joy and the tension his friends brought with them when they all met at the stage, they were ready to free themselves, whatever the cost.

“You know”, Crowley said as he poured the red wine into the bulbous glasses, “I was just reminded of our very first meeting.”  
Naomi smiled.  
“You were controlling my company in name of the government, remember?”, he proceeded.  
Naomi stretched out for the offered glass.

  
“I do remember, yes. Well it turned out that now I seem to be controling completely other parts of you, don't I?", She smiled, "I would never have thought we would get along so swimmingly. Or that I would ever have the luck to lead this establishment, together with you. It makes all so much easier to have a partner in buisness and in private on whom one can trust.”, she said, “And I can trust you, am I right? You would run into a burning building to save me from the flames, would you?”

  
“Certainly, love. As would you.”, Crowley smiled. Naomi nodded, although she knew as well as he did that this was a lie, but that would’t matter as long as said scenario wouldn’t come true. And a small glimpse of hope always let them think that maybe, maybe the other one was saying the truth.  
"You know, the performers are planning something. I think they want to rebell.", Crowley stated.

  
"Oh, my dear, I wouldn't worry about them. The theatre is strong enough, we are strong enough, and they are too weak to be any greater danger. Plus, with Dean joining us today, we will get even stronger. And when the day is over, we'll simply make them forget, as we always do.", Naomi responded calmly.  
“ You are right, as you always are.", Crowley blew Naomi a kiss, "To the most inteligent and most beautiful woman,best partner in crime and bed, as well as too the unbelievable charming devil with an extraordinary sense of buisness. To us!”, Crowley confirmed and they chinked glasses.

Castiel heard glass breaking. Someone must have smashed the windows. During the preparations for this day Cas had paid especial attention to how the construct Crowley and Naomi had creater worked, how they managed to change memories and personalities and how the profitaded of it. They performers stole files from Naomi's office, and it didn't take to much time for Castiel to realize that his friend Anna had died because her life energy had been sucked out of her over years, and that Crowley and Naomi's plan was to let the other performers experience this destiny, too. But they weren't going to accept the roles that Crowley, Naomi or even destiny had chosen for them, they were going to fight, and when Cas found out the building itsself was included in the proces, the building itself was a prison that held them there like pigs that were being cramped to finally be slaughtered, they knew they had to not only destroy whatever let Crowley and Naomi have power over them, but especially the building, their prison.

  
The other workers, the ticket and popcorn sellers and the staff of the theatre had now federated with the vandalizing performers, and the angry mob was demolizing everything they could find, literally breaking free from their jail.

  
The performers began to shout, scream, cry, and memories were starting to fill Cas' mind. The sursprised screams of his daughter, the beautiful little Claire, when he would play tag with her and chase her through their garden, her amused laughter, full of happiness.

  
And then Dean, groaning, screaming, because of him, because of Cas, how he could feel Dean's heart race, how he could here him whisper, Oh God, because it felt so good, and Cas was overwhlemed with emotions, memories mixing with reality.

  
The shouts of his friends were now sounding in Cas head, echoing there, And they were his own shouts too, sounds of affiliation and solidarity, creating a feeling of pride, pride to be one of them, and yet anger that he was being held in here, rage that Anna couldn't be here now, that she had to die for an evenly damnable and genius plan of two simple sitizens who didn't want to die. His daughter was twirling, her arms streched out as if she was flying, her eyes closed, and Amelia looked at her as if she was the personification of the good, as if their daughter was an angel, and all he could do was to agree with his wife, because his daughter, ruly, was an angel, his little angel.

  
And then Cas was back in the theater, standing on the stage, an apocalyptic scenery around him.  
The arrogance that Crowley and Naomi must posses to think they could judge over other peoples' lifes was making him made, and Cas swung around, looking for something to grab, and when he saw one of the security men running towards him he defended himself, he grabed the man's wraist and turn his arm on his back, turned it further until he heard bones breaking and him scream from pain, and he took the man's baton, prodded him of the stage, started running around and hammered at everything he could find, he was in the crowd, he was one of them, he could feel their emotions, and he knew they could feel his, and now he was shouting too, shouting with them, breaking the furniture, and when he looked around him he could see the same sparkle that had taken possesion of him in the others' eyes too, and this had to be what life felt like.

 

Crowley took a sip of his wine.  
"I hope that Dean Winchester gets here soon, we don't want our beautiful furniture to be demolished, do we?", he said.  
"Be calm, Crowley, love. I am sure the performers are just gathering for their planned rebillion, it will take them hours until they will even get a good plan, and until then, we will have neutralized them all."  
“You better be right, Naomi.”

  
“Don’t worry. We always have an ace in the hole. There is-“

  
The door burst open. Small pieces of the wooden door were flying trough the air, some even landing in Naomi's hair, one had cut Crowley on his cheek.  
In only a second, the room was getting filled with performers, their eyes sparkling with anger and emotion, armed with all kinds of weapons and ready to use them.

  
Naomi was staring at the seat in front of her surprised, but Crowly wasn't sitting there anymore. She was searching for him in the room, but he was gone. A door shut, and Naomi’s glace stopped there quickly. Crowley had taken one glimpse at the situation and, the coward he was, decided to get out of here trough the backdoor of his office.  
For a second Naomi thought of following him. But it was too late. She would have to cope with the situation alone.

  
The performers were no longer tamned and emotionless, they were wild animals, ready to attack.  
The only way to get the situation and the mob under control was to reinforce the theater, so Naomi slowly went back, searching for the wall behind her.  
As soon as she touched it, she began to let her own energy flow through the walls.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is absolutely no reason to do something you will later regret. Keep calm and let us talk.  
The energy of the theatre was increased and it began repairing itself, And for a moment Naomi felt relive, but then, all to suuden, panic came back: Her energy wasn’t enough. Her eyes lit with fear, and the performers noticed this, some of them were grinning, others were pursing their lips, narrowing their eyes, fixing their bait.

  
Naomi screamed as the performers overmastered her, pulling her back from the wall and dragging her out of the room.


	12. Chapter 12

When Dean entered TUMCONY he gagged, assaulted by an incredible stench.  
It was an array of different smells, nothing like the initial scent of buttered popcorn.  
Something akin to sulfur and soot, rotting wood and mouldering clothes. Sickly sweet like decaying bodies.  
The wallpaper in the foyer was torn, the tables turned over, paper littering the floor. A rat skipped across the room and disappeared behind a crumpled poster. It was a mess.

  
He walked quickly down the aisle to the big hall, in which the show would usually take place.  
The former burgundy walls were now streaked with dirt and and a dark substance that was dripping to the floor and Dean's stomach lurched in terror.  
Just what had happened here?

  
He walked with a careful tread and looked around from time to time cautiously. There was not a single soul here, much less anyone trying to alarm the police.  
But there was no time for that, he thought and quickly entered the room.

  
He was struck immediately by the darkness that was present in the room, blinding him almost except from the soft glow from the center of the rooms, illuminating the horrifying scene.  
The chandeliers were lying broken on the floor, crystal shards stuck in and lying on the many seats that were now stained and worn out. Simple folding chairs with cheap foam upholstery that was already flat and torn.  
This wasn't something that could have been created within a day, he thought.

  
The damage was massive and it looked like it must have taken weeks to achieve these results. If Dean didn't know it better, he would have assumed that this was a ramshackle building, maybe standing empty for years already.

  
In the middle of the room, down on the stage was a mob of people and Dean recognized some of them as performers.  
He hurried down to them, their clothes dusty and fraying, fists clenched and shouting obscenities at the person in the middle of the crowd.  
Naomi was sitting on a wooden chair, hands and feet bound with a thick rope to the frame.  
Her back was straight, chest out, chin high. A few hair strands were peeking out from her tight bun.  
Her eyes were full of pride, cold and calculating.

  
Abaddon was standing in front of her, with her whip in the hand, Cas right besides her, arms behind his back, brows furrowed.  
Dean thought he looked like a military officer, his dirty trenchcoat a uniform.  
Dean quickly found the light source: An old fashioned lantern that Benny was holding, the flame casting jittering shadows on his grim face, tinting its surrounding in light and shadow with a million tones in between.

  
The air was thrumming with tension, the moment before a change.  
Dean caught Cas' eye.  
"What's going on?"  
Cas bit his lip and turned to Abaddon and Balthazar, told them something, eyes flickering every now and then to Dean.  
Then Cas hurried to Dean, resting his hand on his arm.

"Let's go somewhere else," he whispered.  
He tugged Dean by his hand and led him offside to the dirty seats, pulled him around.  
"I did it", he breathed, eyes shining in the dim light, "we did it."  
"What the hell is this down there?"  
"This", he said, "is a revolution."

  
Dean stared at him bewilderedly.  
"A what?!"  
"You were right about everything and now this entire thing is coming down. We are rewriting this story, Dean."

  
 But he only laughed dejectedly in response.  
"The hell you've been doing? Look, I think I was wrong, I-"  
"How can you say all this after everything, we've been through? You were the first to shed light into this, you were the spark to this fire!"  
Cas cupped Dean's face with his hands and looked into his eyes.  
"We've made it now, we can get out of here. If we fight, we can..."  
"What if I don't want to fight anymore?", Dean said.

  
Cas tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering in disbelief.  
Dean brought his hands up to Cas' wrists and tugged them down gently, still holding them.  
"I'm tired, you know. And I don't think I can do this much longer."  
"What are you talking about?"

  
"This whole thing", Dean said, "it's bullshit. The whole world is going to hell, I've been seeing things that aren't real for weeks, Cas, I saw Balthazar sawing Bela open and watching her intestines pour out for fuck's sake. My brother barely survived an overdose, I'm unemployed, my whole life is a god damn mess. And there's no way out of it, you know. Because you can struggle as much as you want and try to swim against the current, but it's no good, alright. What does it even matter anymore what I do, if I fail at everything anyway, huh? It's just endless good for nothing."

  
"So what do you intend to do", Cas asked quietly with an incredulous smile, "run away? Join us?"  
Dean closed his eyes.  
"You're joking."  
"Cas", Dean rasped, "I'm just sick of it, okay. I don't see any other way."  
"You are a bastard, Dean Winchester", Castiel spat and punched his face, pressed him up against the creaking chairs, pushing a leg between Dean's.  
"How dare you", he hissed and fisted his shirt, "say something like this to my face? After you told me to question and to doubt everything I knew?"  
Cas tugged Dean's head back and yanked his hair.  
"How can you stop caring for the world, when it just started spinning?"  
He pushed Dean to the grimy floor, glass shards scrunching beneath his body.  
"Stand up already, Winchester! Stop getting pushed around and put up a fight!", he roared.  
"I can't", Dean said, "I can't."

  
Cas bent down and heaved Dean up by the front of his shirt, eyes narrowed to slits.  
And Dean wondered what happened to the gentle storyteller he once knew.  
"You are not the same man, who spent weeks on giving a dead friend justice. Who stood up tall against all the obstacles the world tossed in his direction."  
"That man is dead, Cas. It's over."

  
Castiel slapped him once, twice.  
"Dean Winchester", he breathed, "you are the greatest and best man I have ever had the honor to meet and your courage and kindness are unrivaled. But right now you're behaving like a wuss."

  
Dean socked Cas on the jaw and he hit the floor with a thump. Dean slowly straightened himself.  
"Yeah. Okay."

  
"When he had said these things, he cried with a loud voice: Lazarus, come forth. And presently he that had been dead came forth, bound feet and hands with winding bands; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus said to them: Loose him, and let him go", Cas recited quietly and smiled.  
"The bible, really?", Dean asked.  
"I thought it to be appropriate, with a dead man rising after all."  
Dean shook his head and chuckled.  
"I can't believe you."

  
He reached his hand out to Castiel and took hold of it, pulling him up quickly.  
Then he snaked his arm around his back and pulled him to his chest, laying his head on his dusty shoulder.  
"Thanks, man."  
"You should know that you aren't alone. Sam and Bobby will always support you and I..."  
Dean looked at Cas' fondly, cupped his face and slotted their lips together.  
Rough stubble, the smell of petrichor, the warmth of his mouth. Cas' fingers slipped under the hemline and brushed his skin.  
And for a brief moment, Dean felt alright.

  
He pulled away, tongue tracing the curve of his lips.  
"You should ramble less."  
"I'm a storyteller, Dean, I'm getting paid to ramble."

  
"Well, it seems like you were one."  
Dean glanced down to the stage and looked at Naomi's predicament.  
"What are you doing with her?"  
And Cas' face darkened.  
"We're getting all the information we can."  
Cas glanced aside.  
"Maybe we should return to the others."  
He started walking down to the scene and they came back in time to witness Abaddon laying down her whip and kneeling down only inches away from Naomi.  
"Spit it out already, angel. What did you do to us?", Abaddon purred sweetly.  
She stroked her cheek.

  
"I've just helped you, nothing more, nothing less", Naomi spat.  
Abaddon hissed, raised her hand and slapped Naomi's face, long red nails digging into her skin and leaving pink streaks behind.  
Naomi didn't cry out, just straightened her neck instead as the gashes closed up within seconds.  
"What the fuck", Dean said and looked at Cas.  
"That's what has been happening all the time. We don't know what is causing it."

  
"Ah, there you two lovebirds are", Balthazar announced, "I'm sorry Dean, but I'll have to abduct Cassie here for a moment."  
Cas shot Dean a glance and left him.  
He turned instead to Meg, who was standing besides him and holding a thin file that looked suspiciously familiar.  
"Hey", he started, "what is-"  
"Save it, Winchester", she drawled.  
She crossed her arms in front of her chest.  
"This isn't the time for small talk."

  
"Have you gotten anything new on her?"  
"Does it look like it?",she scoffed. "She just keeps saying the same old things. God, I don't understand why we're still keeping her alive."  
"What?"  
Meg looked at him bemusedly, edge of her mouth perking up.  
"Oh, honey, didn't he tell you?"  
She looked at Cas, who was arguing fiercely with Abaddon.  
"We're going to slaughter her."

  
He looked at her with a horrified expression, but she laughed jarringly and said: "I wish you could see yourself here!"  
"Who decided this?", Dean asked.  
"Abaddon, of course. Baby boy over there doesn't have the guts to do what's right, he's too good. But Abbie", she whistled,"does she know how to get things done."  
Dean stared at Naomi, still sitting rigidly on her chair.  
"That woman destroyed my life and I want to see her burn for it." Meg held up the file. "It might have sucked, but it was mine, and I carved out my own space for myself. And to have some slut and a sleazy guy come up to you and rob you of it, only to plant you an entirely new thing in your brain, new personality, new past, new everything? Call me evil, call me a bitch, but don't tell me that she doesn't deserve to rot in hell!"

  
"Oh, Megan", Naomi said and turned her head to her, "I didn't do anything but give you a new future."  
"Shut your whore mouth!", she yelled, tangled hair falling in front of her eyes.  
"You should have seen yourself then", Naomi continued. "You were a wreck. Looking all these years for your father, but finding out he was a gangster broke your heart. And when your sister committed suicide, when she thought you died in that terrible shooting..."  
Meg froze and Naomi shook her head.  
"When you arrived here, you were more dead than alive. But we gave you a home, a new start! And you accepted it."  
She shifted her shoulders and stared down at Meg.  
"You should thank me."

  
Abaddon said: "Let's make this simple. You tell us what you and Crowley have been up to all these years and I will spare your life."  
They smiled at each other, Abaddon baring her teeth, Naomi concealing them behind lips.  
"I'm not going to tell you anything, Abaddon", she said, "or should I perhaps say Ms. Sands?"

  
"I understand that you are angry about this revelation and that you want answers and your revenge. It's only natural to react this way after all. But is this what you really want? If you harm me, how will that change your situation? Acting on such impulses won't get you far, in fact it might even harm you."  
"This doesn't explain why your skin closes up within seconds, though", Benny said.  
"I'm immortal", she said, "pesky little cuts won't harm me."  
"Immortal? You've got to be kidding me, man", Dean said. "You wanna tell me that you do some hoodoo magic and the reaper never gets you?"  
"It's simple physics, the transferral of energy", she replied.

  
"Nobody can run away from death", Balthazar said, "it's inevitable."  
"Not for me."  
"Immortality is a myth", Abaddon said but Naomi smiled.  
"This shows how little you know about it. What is life in its rawest form but energy after all? If I can turn potential into kinetic energy, then why shouldn't I be able to take yours and transfer it to me?"

  
"It's not a matter of ability. Black magic is wrong and will cause the executor nothing but grief in the end", Balthazar said grimly.  
"My purposes have always been selfless and righteous!", she hissed. "How can you tell me I'm egoistic, when I have adopted all of you, given you a shelter and a new reason to live! Is it a crime that I want more time to amend things? Is it my fault, that the road to benevolence is often paved with crimes? You have to see the big picture: One person, a weak link, doomed from the start, leaves his life but in turn it enables the rest of us bliss!"  
"You're insane", Dean said.

  
"I am a civil servant, I have the power to change things in our community. I have plans for this city, but with these ignorant people it will take years, decades to realize them. And when I'm old and retired, who will guarantee that my successor is suitable for my position? These people don't know what is good for them, someone has to guide them!"  
"And if you're immortal, you'll never have to leave", Cas muttered.  
"When Crowley offered me the deal, it would have been foolish of me to decline. He had his own motivations of course, with that silly company of his."  
"What deal?", Castiel asked.

  
"The world is in an everlasting state of precarious balance. Where there is good, there must be evil, where there is life there must be death. And with that deal we would tip that balance to our favor. Because in the end, everything is energy. And what is energy but the soul of a person, their driving force?"  
 Cas repeated his question.  
"Don't be so impatient, Castiel, it doesn't suit you. I am getting to it."  
She smiled calmly, quietly rolling the words in her mouth like an expensive liquor.  
She accepted her fate, because with a slip of the tongue, the entire mountain came down.

  
"It was a ritual to create a device that would allow us to transfer the energy from one person to the next. The soul is sitting in the core of every human and is quite shielded I must say. It is only possible to get to it, if its chassis is already cracked. If the person themself is broken."  
She fixed the people in front of her, silently listening to her speech.  
"The device only reveals itself to the emotionally compromised, a poor pathetic individual, and promises them a possibility to escape from their life. It's just a temporary solution of course, as the device breaks the shell open and starts drawing out the energy. Now if you may imagine the transferral as a long rope, starting from the person in question reaching to the device, it inadvertently binds them and said person becomes dependent on the connection. You might even say, they get addicted."  
Her voice was clinical almost, detached.

  
"Surprisingly we have discovered that the soul has several defense mechanisms. It splits itself in two compartments, thus creating a reserve on energy, the minimum necessary to keep a person alive and running. It tries to warn the owner of the imminent threat, creating fake images, sounds, smells.  
And once it crosses a certain moment, the point in which the need for the device is so unbearably strong and a certain amount of energy is lost two things happen.  
The first is that they attempt to merge with the device, one way or another. Any possibility to be as close to it as possible.  
The second is that the soul starts discarding information. After all it needs energy to keep all the memories and personality safe and sound. It loses them in an attempt to stop the body from shutting down. What this means for said person is that they lose their old identity and their capability to experience emotions diminishes.  
And isn't that what they wanted in the first place? To forget and to numb themselves."

  
Abaddon was trembling with rage, Castiel watching Naomi carefully.  
"What then?"  
"The person deteriorates rather quickly upon this point. A few years at best, it depends on the individual. They start feeling number until they are unable to feel. And when even the last reserve is breached, the person might finally start suspecting that something is wrong, a little pain here, a little pain there. Because up until that moment, the person in question doesn't know what is happening. And when even the last trace fades, they die."

  
"Is that what happened to Anna? You sucked her out like a juice box?", Gabriel asked.  
"She was staying an extraordinarily long time with us already, it was going to happen sooner or later."  
"And Amelia Novak? Her daughter, Claire?", Cas asked quietly.  
"They were getting in the way, they knew too much."  
"You are a monster", Dean rasped, guilt and anger rising up to his head.

  
"Please, don't be so naive, Mr. Winchester", she said, voice like a rapier, "we both knew what was going to happen to them."  
"So basically, we're living batteries to you", Meg concluded, gritting her teeth, "you played with our lives to get a few more years?"  
The performers started chattering indignantly. Crying out, hearts aflame with clenched fists and the noise grew louder and louder, rage building up, emotions tearing at their edges.  
Naomi's face was pale and Dean thought she looked older. Fine wrinkles around her mouth, on her forehead.

  
"Do you regret it, ma'am?", Benny asked solemnly.  
There was a beat and Naomi looked right into his eyes, smiling gently.  
"No, I don't. I don't regret a single minute."

  
It happened quickly. A roar of rage and Abaddon socked her in the jaw, chair clattering to the ground, bones cracking beneath her fist.  
And she straddled her, high and imperious, hands connecting to her neck and pressing down, squeezing out the last gasps of life. Cas yelled for her to stop, leaped to her but Abaddon had been as efficient as she was beautiful and Naomi was dead.

  
"What have you done?", he asked quietly, voice quivering with terror and anger.  
And she answered: "Weakened connection to her source of energy and a quick kill. There was never enough time for her to regenerate."  
She smiled, a perfect slice of carnivore-white, red lips framing her fangs.

  
Naomi's body started bubbling, like boiling oil, skin loosening and wrinkling rapidly. Her hair whitened within seconds, eyes sinking deep into their sockets, body becoming frailer until her limbs vanished beneath her clothes. And she vanished the way she had spent her whole life, in the shadow of a man.

  
Slowly the walls in the room started perforating, peeling, pulsing almost, pieces of it crumbling to the swaying floor. Chairs vibrating, melting into a mass of black and grey that flowed down towards the stage in thick streams. Space expanding and contracting on a whim, walls closing in one minute and in the next they stretched miles away from each other, temperature fluctuating wildly and Dean yelled to get out of there and they dashed for the exit, all the way up from the stage, as the theater decayed and died behind them.

  
And when the last one of them left the building Dean heard a loud bang, as it collapsed in itself.  
When he turned around all he could see was a construction area.  
TUMCONY was gone.  
They were outside on a sideroad, cars and people rushing past them.  
"Oh my God", Meg said, "we're out of that shithole."  
And she laughed, loud and manically, but the others joined in, voices rising up, because they were outside on a sideroad and everything they had known until now vanished.

  
Castiel turned to Dean, all rumpled coat and tired eyes.  
"What now?", he asked.  
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink."  
He smiled wryly and Cas' eyes softened, fingers bumping against each other, as they left for the city.


	13. Epilogue

His residence was located in Hudson Valley of course, a mansion intimidating in size and pompousness.  
She wouldn’t have expected anything less: Crowley was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life after all and would never settle on anything beneath his standard.

  
The cab stopped in front of a long winding path that lead to the building and the woman smiled at the driver, charm oozing from her softly spoken words as she paid him. Then she slipped out of the car gracefully, long legs pouring out of the door, the fresh snow giving way beneath her black high heels. They had been expensive and would be undoubtedly ruined after this but that didn’t worry her. She had more important matters to attend to.

  
The woman pulled her coat tighter with her gloved hand in an attempt to shield herself from the harsh wind. The rainy weather of the autumn months had changed to something fierce and cold, snowflakes whirling in her sight and crashing against her porcelain face, shrouding everything in blurry ice. It was her favorite season.

  
Even beneath a thick layer of snow she could see that the lawn was meticulously mown; a few white trees and bushes strategically placed to give this place a sense of order and respectability. The woman smiled briefly, just who was he trying to fool?  
Upon arriving at the door, she rang the bell and was greeted by an elderly man, clad in a black jacket and a bow tie.

  
“Can I help you, Miss?” Probably a servant, she thought, maybe his butler.  
“I’m here to visit Mister Crowley”, she said crisply, red lips curving upwards.  
“I’m afraid he won’t be accepting any guests at the mo-“  
“You must understand”, the woman intervened, “it was supposed to be a surprise. I am a rather good acquaintance of his.”  
She gazed at him from under her eyelashes and smiled slowly. The man fidgeted and glanced nervously aside.

  
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you. Mister Crowley strictly order-“  
She pushed her leg through the door crack.  
“Oh, please, won’t you let me in for a while? It is so cold outside, I might catch my death out here and you wouldn’t want this happen, am I right?”, she whispered sweetly.  
“No, of course not, Miss.”

  
“Then let me enter”, she said coldly. Completely taken aback by her sudden change of tone, the man flinched and she pushed her way into the building, shoving the man backwards and shutting the door nonchalantly behind her. It was a nice entrance hall: Polished wooden floor, pictures from much valued artists and expensive vases. Music was playing softly in the background.

  
“Who are you?”, he barked.  
She threw her head back and laughed, red curls bouncing up briefly.  
“Oh, sweetie, I have so many names.”  
The woman walked up to him and cradled his cheek.  
“Tell me, where is Crowley?”  
“What do you want from him?”  
“Just a little chat, catch up with him. So many things have happened lately.”  
He eyed her warily, moving backwards. She was smaller than him, probably not even half as strong. He could easily overpower her but yet the way her eyes fixed him strangely prevented him from aggressing.  
“Talk”, she said and dug her nails into his skin.  
“End of the corridor, turn right.”  
She smiled. “There we go.”  
The woman leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek.  
“Now sleep”, she whispered into his ear.

  
He narrowed his eyes in confusion but before he could respond, she already knocked away his feet from underneath him. Grabbed the vase from behind him and shattered it on his head with one swift movement. She sashayed past the now unconscious man, past the pool of blood and down the hallway. The aisle was wide and painted in light and friendly colors but there were no windows.

  
With every click of her heels, the music grew louder, a slow jazz tune. She finally stopped in front of a closed door on her right, at the end of the corridor. Incidentally it was the room from which the music was coming from. The woman lifted her hand to knock.  
“Come in.”

  
Upon entering, a middle aged man, dressed in an expensive looking suit was just pouring himself a glass of what seemed like the finest scotch, filled in a crystal glass bottle. Crowley looked older, frailer maybe. Did he lose a few pounds? His face showed more hair than his head, his now yellowish skin was hanging from his bones and his bloodshot eyes were sitting deep inside his skull, perched carefully atop dark rings.  
Crowley smirked and raised his glass, the drink glistening amber in the yellow light. She smiled at the way his hand was trembling almost imperceptibly, the veins that were showing through his skin.

  
„Miss Sands! An honor to meet you again after all that happened. You’re still as beautiful as I remember you, dear. And so noisy, too! Some things don’t change after all.” He took a sip of his drink, gaze flickering up to her.  
“Why, it’s good to see you as well”, she replied coolly, “in fact, I’m glad to see you so cheerful! One might think that after that catastrophic blow your company received you would be all so glum and moody. I’ve read all about it in the papers.”  
Crowley’s eyes hardened but his smile stayed in place.

  
“How did you find me?”  
She shrugged. “I have contacts.”  
He nodded and gestured with a smile to his sofa, colored in a rich red, with several pillows on it. There was a gramophone next to it, the record spinning lazily beneath the needle.  
“Please, do take a seat.”

  
The room was decorated lushly; the warmly colored wood panels on the walls and the floor were a stark contrast to the outside. Complicated ornaments were adorning the bookshelves she spotted a piano and a mahogany table in the back of the room.  
She took place and Crowley joined her soon with his glass.  
“You want something to drink as well, love? You know how much I love strong spirits.”  
He winked at her.  
“Thank you, but I’ll have to pass. Rat poison isn’t to my taste.”  
He chuckled.

  
“So”, he said, crossing his legs and joyfully ignoring her remark, “what makes you visit, Josie? Did you miss me and the good old times, wanna tango one last time?”  
“I prefer Abigail now. A new life, a new name. Josie Sands is still-gone and it will stay that way.”  
She brushed a curl out of her face and Crowley thought that even this simple movement promised a danger that only she could exude.

  
“Abigail, hm?”, Crowley was staring down his glass. “It kind of reminds me of your old stage name.” He swirled his glass dreamily. The surface of the Scotch rippled, waves breaking at the edges of the glass.

“Abaddon. I found it to be such a fitting name. Unique. Fierce. Powerful.” He glanced at her. “But it’s too bad those times are over. We had had so much fun, no?”  
She laughed loudly and patted his arm. She was quite close to him now, her lips only almost touching his ear, but this wasn’t the reason why his heart was racing.  
“Oh, they are not over at all, Crowley”, she said finally, her breath tickling his skin, “only the positions of those in charge have changed.”

  
His smile faltered for a second too long.  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”  
She stood up swiftly and started pacing in front of him, like a big cat in captivity.  
“Let’s cut the chase and stop fooling around.”  
“What do you want, Abaddon.”  
“Abigail”, she hissed, “don’t you dare call me by that name again.”  
“We’re touchy today, aren’t we?”  
“Careful, you’re moving on thin ice”, she said. “I’m here to talk about your imminent demise. You are going to die, Crowley.”

  
He raised an eyebrow. “Bullshit”, he finally spat, careful to control his temper. Losing it would only amuse her. “I’m fine.”  
She clicked her tongue in return and stepped towards him.  
“But it’s true. Look at yourself, old man, breaking down into pieces without your precious energy to sustain your pathetic body, just like your company,” her voice steady and affirmative.  
“The company that still belongs to me and that is still making profit”, he replied, anger slowly seeping into his words, warning her not to push it too far.

  
Abigail was moving back just a bit, looking into his eyes. She looked like an innocent child now, doll-like, with her eyes wide open.  
“The question is how long this will last. We both know that its value is steadily sinking, we both know that all your partners are either dumping or blackmailing you and we both know that you already had to sell your country house to keep the wolf from the door.”  
“How the bloody hell did-“  
“Don’t think I’m not keeping track of you. Because I have plans, you know”, she said, biting her lip, “and I’m going to tear your business completely apart, honey.”

  
“What do you even want from me”, he said, his voice a crescendo, “don’t you have anything better to do than to come crawling back to your old boss?!”  
She bent over and with a quick jolt she tore the glass out of Crowley’s grip, the liquid sloshing dangerously.  
“I want revenge, Fergus”, she declared, taking a sip of the liquor as she moved back.  
The smile switched to a sneer, her eyes cold steel that glared at him with a disgust and hate he had never seen in her before.  
“And I always get what I want.”

  
Abaddon tossed the glass carelessly to the ground, the remaining liquid spilling over the broken shards and the carpet.

  
“Get _the hell_ out of here, you fucking bitch!”, he bellowed and stood up abruptly, “If you show up here one more time I’m going to skin you alive!”  
Upon turning around she flicked the fur of her coat’s collar with a sharp laugh over her shoulder and left the house as sudden as she entered it.

 

The reason Abigail had chosen a warehouse again, was because of its space and inconspicuousness.  
If somebody had asked he if it made her feel nostalgic, she would have slapped them.  
It hadn’t been very expensive to purchase it and even if it had been, she would have come up with the money, as the reward redeemed any amount of money.

  
She entered it in the dead of night with a large purse, the doors creaking loudly and the cars rushing past the building, her steps echoing in the huge hall.  
It was almost completely silent inside of the building, eerily so.  
Just occasionally she heard a rat skitter across the floor or the roof groaning under the weight of the huge layer of snow.  
Abigail was freezing. Winter should have been over by now, but the cold weather had stayed.  
Luckily, she wouldn’t have to stay long, it would be done soon.

  
She had chosen a suitable spot days ago already, a large empty area in the middle of the huge building and when she knelt down, dust rising to the air, she felt ready and prepared.

  
Abigail had thought this through, several times already, had studied the books and done her research. Really, becoming immortal was rather simple in the end.  
The squeaking of the white chalk with which she drew the required circular symbol diligently on the floor soon filled up the room. Stroke by stroke, she worked towards her goal with an impeccable precision in the dim light, the two candles she had brought with her being the only source of light, dancing spots in the otherwise motionless darkness. She didn’t feel tired of drawing the intricate pattern on all fours, it made her feel alerter instead, the powder staining her hands and the movements gradually warming her up.

  
“It won’t work that way”, a familiar voice drawled.  
A woman, Abigail noted, scanning her surrounding carefully until her gaze fell on a dark figure, leaning casually against a steel stanchion with crossed arms.

  
“How did you get in here, Ruby?“  
She shrugged her shoulders and stepped into the flickering light, shadows dancing across her smug face.  
“You know how I am, weaseling my way in and out anytime and anywhere I want.”

  
Ruby strode nonchalantly around the large circle Abigail had painted: Complicated geometric patterns, pentacles and circles, crisp lines of chalk intertwining. There was a copper bowl standing in the center of it, filled with a dark liquid and clumps of meat and hair. Next to it laid a serrated knife as well as a small, smelly pouch, its content obscured to the viewer.  
She squatted and whistled lowly.  
“Good penmanship”, she said, “very clear lines. Looks like you’ve got all the stuff as well. Too bad it’s all for nothing.”  
“This is way out of your league. You should leave, woman”, Abigail said sharply.

  
“Leave?”, Ruby repeated with a wry laugh, “I didn’t get out in the middle of the night, freezing my damn ass off, to hear you telling me to fuck off!”  
She walked up to Abigail, who had gotten up in the meantime.  
“You need me in order to finish this”, Ruby said.

  
Abigail raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking up.  
“You seem to be overestimating yourself, dear. Why should I want you here?”  
Ruby’s eyes glinted manically in the candlelight.  
“You really don’t know, do you?”, she whispered.  
Abigail’s hand snapped forwards and grabbed Ruby’s face tightly, pressing her cheeks together, fingers curled beneath her chin. The former cocked her head and smiled, baring briefly her teeth.  
“Listen”, she breathed, watching Ruby stare at her indifferently, “this is a warning. You have chosen the wrong time to play your games and I have no patience to entertain you any longer.”  
She removed her hand, leaving red streaks behind.  
“Get out my sight.”

  
But Ruby threw her head back and laughed instead, hair falling wildly in front of her eyes.  
“Well, isn’t that the funniest, goddamn thing I’ve ever heard!”, she shouted violently, eyes wide with emotion.  
“Oh, Miss Almighty, walking down the streets with her head so high, heiress of a million dollar enterprise- you don’t even have a clue what’s really going on! You’re not any better than me- and believe me or not, I actually have the upper hand here. Scouring the underground has its advantages after all.”  
She smiled toothily.  
“If you were to perform this ritual right now, all on your own, you would go up in flames.”

  
“Haven’t I made it clear enough that I do not care about you or your opinions?”, Abigail said,.  
Silence.  
Then Ruby said quietly: “You ever wondered why Crowley didn’t pull off this stunt on his own? Why bother with Naomi, that goody two-shoes?”  
At this Abigail went quiet and Ruby nodded, a smile slowly stretching her lips.  
“Because he knew”, she cried out, “Crowley has been doing this stuff since he was a kid, he has his fair share of experience. But you-“ She shook her head. “You are nothing.”  
“So, go ahead!”, she continued, “Light yourself up like a Christmas tree, not that I fucking care!”

  
“Why should I believe you?”  
Ruby snorted and looked straight into her eyes. “You wanna take that risk?”  
Abigail eyed the chalk drawing a moment, then turned back to Ruby.  
“Tell me, what have I been missing?”  
Ruby held up two fingers. “You need a pair, the gender doesn’t matter.”  
“And that’s all?”  
“That’s all.”

  
“So you want me to partner up with you”, Abigail said, “you know that I can easily find a better replacement for you with just the bat of my eye?”  
“Well, I am the most obvious solution to your little problem here- unless you want to wait for the next opportunity, but who knows when that’s going to happen, alignment of stars and all. Besides I have the necessary experience and knowledge- you know, Mama raised me pretty well for a nutjob and the rest I gathered on the street. I’m clever, but you know that already, and also I’m smoking hot.”

  
“What’s in it for you? You’re not doing this because of the goodness of your heart, I assume.”  
They both smirked at that.  
“I have my reasons, trust me.” Ruby leaned in closer, almost conspiratorially, warm light reflecting off her teeth.

  
“Do you want to know why it only works with two people? It’s because everything in this universe comes in pairs. Light-dark, love-hate. We are representing the entirety of the world in this ritual, its wholeness and the balance between the aspects in each pair, because that’s what makes the world go round. You can’t have the good without the bad or vice versa, it would destroy the fabric of reality.”

  
Abigail eyed her disdainfully, the way Ruby was pressing out her belief from her pursed lips.  
She had always known that something was wrong with that girl, the way she held herself when she walked through the theater back then.  
“I have been watching what has been going on, what Crowley and Naomi have been doing, the way this world works!”, she exclaimed, reaching out to shake Abigail by her shoulder but the latter slapped her harshly across the face, a warning, eyes hard and a growl at the back of her throat like a wild animal. Ruby stumbled a few steps back but just cackled at her.

  
“You are pathetic und a fool to believe in this”, Abigail spat, looking down at her with a snarl.  
“I, we are sacrificing ourselves for the wellbeing of reality- for every moment we continue to live past our expiration date somebody must pay. For every bad thing we do something equally good will happen. And we are helping to keep this system intact. Call me crazy, but what we’re doing-”  
She breathed heavily and laughed, raising her hands to give her words more momentum.  
“It’s awesome! Crowley and Naomi tipped the balance then left a gap behind. But we’re making sure all falls back into order! Regardless of it being evil or righteous, it must be replaced by something with an equal significance. We’re a part of something so huge and magnificent we can’t even grasp its totality! And to be in charge of even the smallest part, to serve the greater good- it’s a fucking honor!”

  
Her voice cracked towards the end, face contorted in raw emotion, she was obsessed. For a moment a shadow of disgust passed over Abigail’s features but was quickly replaced by a large smile.

  
“Sweetheart, there is neither a plan for us, nor is there justice on this world. It’s a Battle Royale and whether you survive is up to you. As for me, I will slash and carve my way through this mess to victory and if I have to step over corpses to get what I want, so be it.”  
Abigail turned her back sharply to Ruby and walked back up to the drawing.  
“Grow up, Ruby. There is no place on this world for simpletons.”

  
Ruby shook her head. “Maybe you can’t understand this”, she said breathlessly “you only live for yourself and your petty motivations, revenge and control, never seeing anything beyond that. But guess what? In the end, it doesn’t even matter.”

  
Ruby pulled out a knife from beneath her coat, jagged ends glinting dangerously in the darkness and ancient runes inscribed like a word of caution in the silver blade. Ruby pressed it briefly against her palm, lips a thin line, and held it up. The blood trickled down her sleeve in dark streams. Her lips quirked up.  
“The point is that without me, you’re lost. So you better start carving yourself up now, if you want to live. This ritual requires both of our blood to establish a bond. That is if you aren’t scared.”  
“Honey, I certainly don’t mind spilling blood.”  
“Didn’t think any other of you.”

  
Courage, intelligence and conviction- that Abigail could appreciate and maybe that’s why she liked Ruby. But perhaps it was her arrogance and naivety that tipped the scales to her favor, Abigail always had a soft spot for suggestibility after all.  
She tossed her the knife and Abigail grabbed the handle in mid air.

  
“That butter knife you got yourself won’t do”, Ruby added and briefly tilted her chin in the general direction of the blade that was lying next to the bowel, “people might laugh, if they see it. You wouldn’t want to look like an amateur, no?”  
She sashayed to the other end of the circle; Abigail’s eyes following her like a wild animal its prey.  
“You ready to conquer?”  
“I never have been more.”

Spring was coming Chuck felt that in his bones. He observed the way weeds were squirming up from between gaps in the pavement, how even the last bit of ice had melted by now.  
Winter had been rough for him, but now that it was getting warmer and he didn’t have to worry constantly about finding a place to spend his night at, he felt like things were finally picking up- his back pain was slightly less pronounced than usual and he had found something to eat while wandering through the city. All in all life was sort of less terrible than usually.

  
Cars were whizzing nosily past him, the amount of horses on the streets was slowly going back and while that meant less droppings that he could step into, he wasn’t too pleased to be breathing in the fumes constantly, mingling with the scent of food that was sold on the road.

  
Not that the rest of the people around him seemed to mind, chattering merrily about and skipping across the pedestrian area to wherever they needed to get to.  
Chuck briefly considered finding a job then decided that it was not worth wasting his life like that.  
He had been given a second chance and he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste it. Even though he sometimes missed the security of having an own home, he couldn’t say that unemployment didn’t have its perks as well.

  
The rustling of paper beneath his battered shoes tore him out of his thoughts and he lifted his feet to look at what he had stepped on.  
It was a wrinkled page of the local newspaper, slightly soiled and stained around its corners but still completely readable. Somebody must have dropped it, he thought and was about to move on when a light breeze caused the page to turn and a picture of a familiar face to be revealed. He furrowed his brows in bewilderment and concern, what was she doing in the news?

He bent down and picked it up, thin paper curling around his fingers. It was a couple of days old, at best.  
The featured woman carried a bright smile on her face and was standing in front of a modern looking building. He noted that her hair was longer now, still all red curls, just like he remembered- but that female suit was new though, not that he complained. Still that was all the change he could register and worry began niggling in the back of his head.  
New head of Sands Constructing, the headline stated. Chuck read on.

_After the sudden and unexpected disappearance of the former CEO Mr. Fergus Crowley, Sands Constructing is now back in family property. The company is now being lead by Ms. Abigail Sands, a distant relative of the founder’s daughter, Josie Sands._   
_We had the opportunity to talk to Ms. Abigail Sands exclusively._   
_Ms. Sands stated that she was glad about these fortunate circumstances to occur and that she would work hard to hold up the enormous profit it had made under the leadership of Mr. Crowley. Not only that, but according to her, “big changes are ahead of us” and that she already had clear plans of the company’s future._   
_Additionally to having taken over his enterprise, Ms. Sands is excited to open up a new cinema in town, together with a “good friend” of hers, who is fortunate to have “connections in the movie business”._   
_Ms. Sands had greatly enjoyed variety shows in her youth and was now thrilled to contribute to the entertainment industry and “give something back to the citizens of New York”._   
_As she put it, her cinema will enable a “totally new form of entertainment”, which will “combine historically approved elements of acting with the new possibilities of Hollywood”._   
_We can be excited, as this project is said to give birth to the yet unknown stars of tomorrow._

Chuck flung the paper with trembling fingers to the ground as if it bit him. Something in his throat tightened, a clump of despair, and he suddenly felt light headed.  
Maybe he was mistaken, maybe it was just a coincidence.  
But maybe, the show just had to go on, the call for an encore louder than ever.  
The paper swayed gently with a sense of foreboding in the breeze and Chuck disappeared in the streets of New York.


End file.
